


Into the Woods

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 122,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Teyrn of Highever shows up at Jennie Hawke's door asking for her help finding his brother, the search will take them to the ends of Thedas in a race against opposing forces and bring them something they'd forgotten how to look for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Love a Rainy Night

_Three weeks before the start of the Tethras-Hawke Deep Roads expedition; roughly one year after the end of the Blight_

A chill rain was falling, turning the streets of Lowtown into mucky boot-traps. It was a perfect night for hunting mercenaries. Most people with legitimate business would be inside, and what light filtered through into the alleys would reflect on the surfaces of the puddles, making visibility somewhat better than it was on dry nights.

Jennie Hawke flexed her fingers, glad she had oiled her gloves earlier in the day. Across the alley, the faint light revealed Varric, his shoulders hunched into his elaborate coat. He hated to get wet. A shaft of lamplight flashed off Fenris's lyrium markings as he pulled one of his feet out of the muck. For the life of her, Jennie didn't know how the elves could run around with no shoes on. You never knew what was buried in the refuse on Lowtown's streets.

Sebastian, who had no ability to be stealthy whatsoever, was acting as bait. His fancy white armor shone as he stood in the middle of the alley, looking impatient, as though he was waiting for someone.

It was a carefully laid out plan, one that certainly should have brought the Sharps Highwaymen, the current scourge of Lowtown, out in force. But nothing was happening. Jennie was getting tired of being dripped on and was afraid her boots might have become permanent parts of the alley.

A shout came from another alley farther down toward Foundry Row. "Let's move," Jennie called, and the others followed her, walking as fast as they could through the sticky mud.

Seven of the Sharps were grouped around the mouth of the little alley, their tongues practically hanging out. They must have caught a juicy bird, Jennie thought. What kind of well-heeled idiot wandered the streets of Lowtown on a dark, rainy night like this?

"Drop the purse nice and slow and you can live to be stupid another day," one of the Sharps said.

"I'll do no such thing." It was a strong voice, an angry voice, and unmistakably Fereldan.

Jennie groaned.

"It seems your countryman is foolhardy as well as careless," Fenris muttered.

"Well, let's go save him from himself," Jennie said more loudly. A couple of the Sharps glanced over their shoulders, and Jennie nodded to Varric and Sebastian. Jennie and Sebastian drew their bows, Varric pulled his crossbow, and Fenris flexed his arms, his markings flaring to life, their light bright and startlingly white in the dark alley.

It was difficult to aim in the poor light. Jennie trained her sights on one of the Sharps, hoping to land her arrow in the nape of his neck, where the armor and helmet left a gap. Next to her, she heard the twang of Varric's crossbow and the faint whistle of Sebastian's arrow flying through the air. Jennie fired, the arrow just off-target, glancing off the top of the armor. The Sharps turned.

"Leave him," he called. "Get these'ns!"

The crossbow had hit home, one of the Sharps clutching his shoulder, the alley suddenly filling with the coppery scent of blood. Sebastian's arrow had embedded itself in the back of an unprotected knee. That mercenary braced himself against a wall, drawing a bow of his own.

Fenris was among them now, his fist punching its way through the chest of the first Sharps, armor and all. The man gasped and gurgled, falling to the ground. The sights and sounds and scents combined to bring Jennie's mind back to another rainy night, the battle of Ostagar, and the cries and shrieks of the dying on that field. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, but the reminder was enough to sharpen her movements. Her next shot found the throat of the man with the shoulder wound and he fell.

Varric and Sebastian had fallen back, looking for openings in the battle to shoot into. Fenris had drawn his sword and was engaged with the captain of the Sharps. The others were closing in on Jennie. She got off another shot, this one bouncing off the chestplate of one of the mercenaries, before they came into close quarters. She slung the bow over her shoulder, drawing her daggers, and crouched down to make herself a more difficult target.

Behind the mercenaries, she glimpsed their prey—he wore the usual ridiculous clothing of the nobility, but seemed surprisingly muscular. The noble wasn't running, or cringing, as she had half-expected; he had an arm slung around the neck of the wounded archer, lifting him off the ground. Not so helpless, then, Jennie thought. She ducked under a sword thrust, rolling forward and trying not to think about what must be in the mud that was now smeared all over her armor. Getting to her feet behind one of the mercenaries, she landed a dagger blow in a chink in his armor, using the dagger to lever herself up, burying her second blade in the back of his neck.

The man from the alley was next to her now. "Dagger," he said, his voice the tone of command she remembered her sergeant using when she was in the army. Automatically, she handed him one of hers. Back to back, they faced the last two Sharps.

Jennie caught sight of Varric, cocking Bianca, and grabbed the noble's arm. "Down!" A crossbow bolt flew over their heads, embedding itself in the eye of one of the remaining mercenaries. The Sharps captain gave the familiar death gurgle that said Fenris had prevailed. The last one made a swift calculation of the situation and turned to flee, only to fall after only a few steps with two daggers embedded in his back. Jennie and the man from the alley looked at each other in some surprise.

Fenris bent over the captain for a moment and stood up with an amulet dangling from his fingers. "Decent enchantments."

"Almost ten silver on this one," Varric called, leaning over another body.

"You loot the bodies?" the man from the alley asked. His voice was casually curious, but Hawke thought she heard censure in it and bristled.

"It isn't as though they're going to need money where they've gone," she snapped. "Besides, skills like that, you must have been in the Blight. You didn't do any looting then?"

"That was war."

"So is this," Fenris said darkly, brushing past the man to hand Hawke the amulet. "Those who prey on the kind of people who must live in Lowtown are the enemy."

"Says the mercenary." The Fereldan spoke with an educated accent.

"We saved your life," Jennie said. "A reward wouldn't be amiss, a simple thank you the least you could do."

"I think I helped, didn't I?" The man grinned, taking years off his appearance.

"What was a toff like you doing down here anyway?"

The grin was immediately wiped off his face. "That's my own business." Somewhere nearby Jennie thought for a moment she heard a baby cry, but the sound quickly disappeared.

"Can we help?"

The noble looked around at the dwarf and the elf and the overdressed archer, his gaze finally settling on Jennie. She pushed her ragged blonde hair back off her face, thinking she must look a complete mess after all that fighting. Not exactly confidence-inspiring.

The man from the alley shook his head. "Nice of you to offer. It's a bit of a … delicate mission, not something I can trust just anyone with. I'm sure you understand."

Fenris bent over, brushing mud off his leg. He muttered something in which only the words "ingratitude" and "nobles" could be heard.

"Look, friend," Varric said, "I don't know what your story is, but you can't walk around Lowtown in the dark by yourself. Not unless you have a death wish." He peered up into the man's face. "Or do you?"

"No. Not anymore." The man bowed to Varric. "I appreciate your counsel. I'll be more careful in the future. Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have business to be about."

"Sodding toff is going to get himself killed," Varric muttered.

Jennie watched as the man disappeared into the rain, his shoulders hunched. "Not our problem," she said. "Let's go get a drink."

She'd forgotten all about him by the time they reached the Hanged Man.


	2. All I Ask of You

_Two months after the duel with the Arishok:_

"Messere Hawke!" Bodahn was breathing hard from running up the stairs. He needed more exercise, Jennie thought, carefully running an oiled rag along her new bowstring.

"What is it, Bodahn?"

"Messere, the Teyrn of Highever is here to see you!"

Jennie's head lifted and she stared at the dwarf. "Fergus Cousland? Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, serah. He asked to see the Champion of Kirkwall, said he had something to say that he could only say to you."

Putting down the oil and the bowstring, Jennie stood up. She reached for a towel to wipe her hands on, quickly surveying herself. Her simple jerkin was stained with oil. But she supposed if the great Teyrn of Highever cared what she was wearing, he'd have announced his intention to visit in advance.

He stood up as she entered, bowing deeply. Jennie looked him over with interest. Teyrn Fergus Cousland wasn't tall, not more than an inch or two above her height, but he was solidly built. His black hair was greying at the temples. There were dark circles under his eyes, indicating that he didn't sleep very well. Jennie could sympathize with that ailment. Since the loss of her mother, she slept fitfully most nights. It didn't help that this huge mansion was practically empty; every little sound was magnified at night, a constant reminder of her solitude.

"Serah Hawke?" He was looking at her quizzically, and she realized she'd been staring at him, lost in her own thoughts.

"Yes, I'm Jennie Hawke."

"Fergus Cousland, at your service."

"Your Grace." She made as if to kneel, but he shook his head.

"Please, don't. I'd prefer if you just called me Fergus and we skipped past the titles."

"How egalitarian of you."

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the start of a smile. "Indeed."

"Well, then, Fergus, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?" Jennie gestured for him to sit, taking the chair across from him.

He sat. "Simply put, I need your help."

"What help can I provide that the Teyrn of Highever can't get closer to home?"

Shifting in his chair, he said, "I understand that before you became the Champion, you, um, how to put this? Made money in unusual ways."

"You mean, I was a mercenary."

"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean."

"Why do you need a mercenary?"

He leaned forward. "I need to find my brother."

Jennie's eyebrows flew up. "Your brother Wulfric Cousland, otherwise known as the Hero of Ferelden? That brother?" Fergus nodded, and she frowned. "Surely anyone in Thedas would be happy to help you find him."

"And that would be the problem. A lot of people would like to know where Wulfric is; I need to reach him without that kind of fanfare. There are reasons to conceal his location."

"If it's so important that he remains hidden, why are you looking for him?"

"Because he needs me."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he remained silent, looking at her expectantly. Jennie sighed. "Fergus, I think we have a bit of a problem here. You want me to help you with what appears to be a delicate and difficult task, but you aren't sure how far you trust me. That's fair—you wouldn't want to be too trusting. But if you can't tell me the details of what you need done, then I can't work with you." She spread her hands out in front of her. "It's as simple as that."

He got up, walking to the window and looking out over Hightown. "It's a beautiful view."

Jennie didn't say anything, watching his back.

Fergus rubbed the back of his neck. "I need your assurance that whatever I say here doesn't leave this room."

"Of course. The real question is whether you trust my word."

He turned around, leaning back against the window ledge and folding his arms. His dark eyes studied her for a long time, and Jennie held herself still beneath his scrutiny, little as she enjoyed it. At last he spoke. "Are you familiar with the standard tales of the Blight?"

Jennie nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Surprisingly, he grinned, the smile making him look years younger. "Tales are about all I know, too. I spent the Blight in the Wilderness, recovering from a head wound, while my little brother saved the world. Our parents would have … laughed." His face fell, and Hawke remembered the stories she'd heard about the massacre of the Couslands.

"I'm sorry. I know what it's like to lose a parent through violence."

"Do you?" He sounded doubtful, but then he looked away. "Oh, yes, I heard about your mother. I'm sorry."

They were silent for a moment, lost in the darknesses of their pasts.

Jennie cleared her throat. "So, stories of the Blight. Your brother?"

"Right. Wulfric was always the adventurous type. By the time he was twelve he was already as tall as most men, and he developed early … none of the maids were averse to his advances, and he got into a lot of trouble."

"Little Couslands running around right and left?"

"Not that kind of trouble. We— He was always too careful for that."

Jennie didn't miss the slip, and she looked at Fergus with renewed interest. He seemed too stiff, too … tired for such shenanigans, but with some effort she could imagine him as a fun-loving young man.

"After— Once the Blight started, when Wulfric and Alistair were the last two Grey Wardens, they collected a rather colorful set of companions."

'Colorful companions'? Wait till Fergus met her crew. "How colorful?"

"Well, you'll meet some of them. They're … eccentric."

"I'll meet some of them?"

He nodded. "When they found out I was going to look for Wulfric, they insisted on coming along."

Jennie stood up, frowning with irritation. "So you want to hire me to go find your brother, but you're tying my hands by making me use a prepicked crew of strangers?"

"Not in the least." Fergus met her frown with one of his own. "Wulfric's friends want to come along to help; you are free to bring your own crew, and we will all work together."

"I'm used to being in charge."

"And you will be."

"That's not what it sounds like."

"Look, all I want is to find my brother. If you won't help me …" His words trailed off.

Jennie thought of what she would do if Bethany needed her help. "I'm thinking about it. First, tell me what I'm looking for." He bristled slightly, and she snapped, "What? Do you expect me to agree to help you just like that, without knowing where I'm going or what lies in wait for me? I'm sorry, Fergus, it doesn't work that way."

They glared at each other for a moment before he sighed. "You're right. I'm handling this badly, and I apologize. Please, may I continue?"

"By all means."

"During the Blight, Wulfric fell in love with this woman, an apostate." He raised an eyebrow. "That won't be an issue, will it?"

"Some of my best friends are apostates," Jennie said. "My sister was, until she sickened with the taint in the Deep Roads. She's been a Grey Warden for almost three years now."

"That is what I had heard, but I wasn't certain—one can hardly ask such a blunt question. It's a relief."

Jennie could hear the bustle outside that indicated that the workmen building the addition on the neighboring estate were knocking off for the day. She'd had no idea it was quite this late. "So, your brother and the apostate," she prompted.

"Of course. Well, to belatedly shorten a long story, Wulfric went off with this apostate, deep into the Forest of the Tirashan."

"The Tirashan?" Jennie was shocked. That was the far western edge of Thedas. "No one knows anything about the Tirashan! There aren't even any maps. And my people are Kirkwall people, not wilderness trekkers."

"I know all that. It's one of the reasons I'm allowing Wulfric's companions to come along. They had a lot of experience camping out during the Blight."

"You're asking a lot, Fergus. And you're not telling me everything, that much is quite obvious. Why must you go chasing after your brother now?"

"Because he's in danger. There are … forces that would like to bring back the Hero of Ferelden."

No, he definitely wasn't telling her everything, Jennie thought, watching his face intently until he looked away under her scrutiny. "When were you planning to set out on this excursion?"

"How soon can you leave?"

Jennie stifled a sigh. Just when things were quiet in Kirkwall for a change. Then again, there was something enticing in the idea of getting away from here for a while. Kirkwall held a lot of reminders she could live without. Occasionally she envied Fenris, having lost his memories and having only the present and the future to hold on to. "You're talking months, Fergus."

"At least."

"Can you be away from your Teyrnir that long?"

"I must. An old friend has agreed to oversee my duties while I'm gone. Can you be away from Kirkwall that long?"

"Yes, I suppose I can." Aveline would have a fit. But then, Aveline was perfectly capable of running Kirkwall herself; she certainly didn't need Jennie's interference. "How were you thinking of going? By ship to Val Royeaux and then overland?"

"If we did that, we'd have to buy gear in Val Royeaux, and the Orlesians do like to scam Fereldans out of their money."

"Yes, but it's shorter than going overland. And if I can convince Varric to come along, I don't think we'll have to worry about being fleeced. Varric never met a swindler he couldn't swindle."

"High praise," Fergus said, but his mouth twisted slightly. Clearly she operated somewhere underneath his lofty moral code.

"You're free to go find someone else, if you think anyone else is crazy enough to be interested," she said.

Fergus's jaw tensed. "If I could go on my own, I would, but I think … I think trained fighters who can be trusted are needed. I can't just bring along a group of knights and make an official expedition out of it."

"Final question. How much?"

"How much what?"

"Money, Fergus. Mercenary, remember?"

He looked around at the opulent parlor. "You need money?"

"No, not particularly. But the Fereldan refugees in Darktown do. And I'm not just going off to the Tirashan out of the kindness of my heart. So, I ask you again, how much?"

His eyes narrowed as he thought. "Five hundred sovereigns?"

Jennie nodded. "It'll do. And expenses, of course."

"Of course."

"All right, then. You and your team should meet me and mine tomorrow morning at the Hanged Man. Eat something first, though. You don't want to know what's in the stew." He looked faintly nauseous, and she laughed. "Already had some, I see."

"Any recommendations for better breakfast locations?"

"Talk to my man Bodahn, he'll give you a list." Jennie smiled, holding out her hand. "See you tomorrow, Fergus."

"Jennie." He shook her hand, and she reflected that it was a relief to deal with a Fereldan again—Kirkwallers had trouble shaking hands with a woman. She let Bodahn walk him to the door and went upstairs to start surveying what she might need for an extended journey into the wilderness. She suspected it wouldn't be a dull trip.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fergus walked through Hightown, wishing he could get started immediately and without having to be weighted down by a whole crew of strangers. He didn't know exactly where the danger to his brother was coming from, but something was definitely wrong. He stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the wooden ring Wulfric had left behind. It was warm to the touch, and he spun it between his fingers.

He'd been stunned and disappointed when Wulfric had first come to him with his plans to disappear. His little brother had no business running away into a forest with some hedge witch. As for the rest of it, the tale of the child with Urthemiel's soul … Fergus shook his head. After his time with the Chasind during the Blight, he was well aware that there was far more in the world than what the Chantry admitted to, but an old god's soul trapped in the body of a child was still tough to swallow.

It had been almost three years since Wulfric and the apostate had left. There had been questions immediately afterward; the Grey Wardens had been appalled, and letter after letter had come to Highever, demanding in increasingly strident tones that Fergus tell them where his brother had gone. After a polite response to the first letter, explaining that Wulfric hadn't told him (a mere stretch of the truth, since he only knew a general direction, and the Tirashan was large), he had ignored the rest, finally tossing the last few unopened into the fire. He had nearly forgotten the wooden ring, keeping it buried safely amongst the few keepsakes that had survived the fire at Highever Castle.

A few months ago, he had noticed the drawer he kept those keepsakes in was sticking out. He'd closed it again and again, but every time he returned to his room it was open a little. At first, he'd suspected the servants, had even yelled at a few before noticing that every time he looked in the drawer the ring had worked itself to the top. It was faintly warm to the touch, as well, and belatedly Fergus remembered that as a warning sign—the ring would heat depending on the level of danger. Wulfric had explained all about it when he gave Fergus the ring. Fergus pointed out that by the time he knew there was any danger it would be too late to get to the Tirashan. "You'd be surprised," Wulfric had said. He was flushed with the glow of love and new fatherhood, and Fergus had been too sunk in the face of his own losses to argue. Too jealous of his little brother, truth be told. Wulfric had saved the world, won the lady of his dreams, and had a future ahead of him. Fergus was left with a half-burned pile of rock that had once been his home, in a kingdom nearly ruined by Blight and civil war, and with only memories left of what had once been his own future. He had seen Wulfric off with emotions that were far less mixed than they should have been.

Rediscovering the ring and remembering what the strange heat emanating from it meant had filled Fergus with guilt—how could he have forgotten to take care of his little brother? He had immediately gone to those of Wulfric's companions he could find, consulting with them. From Zevran he had heard of the Champion of Kirkwall, and it was on the elf's recommendation he had approached Jennie Hawke.

If it hadn't been for Zev's endorsement, he wasn't sure he would have followed through with the meeting. She seemed … young. And impatient. It was hard to believe someone as slender as she was had beaten a Qunari Arishok in single combat, but all the nobles Fergus had spoken to about the duel confirmed that she had.

He spun the ring on his finger again, realizing that he had little choice but to trust her. Whatever trouble Wulfric had gotten himself into this time, Fergus was going to need someone as deadly as this Champion to help him.


	3. Knowing Me, Knowing You

"Where is this guy?" Jennie leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. "I told him to meet us here."

The Hanged Man was practically empty this morning. Besides Jennie, Fenris, and Varric, a couple of regulars sat in the corner scraping the bottom of their bowls of mystery stew, a red-headed dwarf in heavy plate was snoring in a chair in front of the fire, and a blond elf with tattoos that looked vaguely Dalish was sipping from a surprisingly delicate teacup. Jennie hadn't known the Hanged Man boasted such fine china.

The rare moment of quiet was interrupted by a delighted cry from the stairs. "Zevran!" Isabela came running down the steps and practically launched herself at the elf, who barely had time to put his teacup down before finding himself with a lap full of very excited pirate.

"Isabela, my dear. To think I should find you in such a … place."

She grinned at him. "You know I like to be where things are happening."

"Very little seems to be happening here."

"Ah, just wait." Isabela climbed off of the elf's lap. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine." She took his hand, leading him toward the others. "Zevran Arainai, this is Jennie Hawke, Varric Tethras, and Fenris."

"Zevran Arainai?" Varric sat up straighter in his chair. "From the Blight? You must have some interesting stories."

Jennie noticed a brief flash of something in the elf's eyes before his pleasant mask reset itself. "Indeed I do," Zevran said to Varric. "I would be more than happy to share them with you … or create some more."

Varric's eyes were twinkling and he seemed about to enter into the badinage, but Jennie had heard enough. "A Blight companion? You must be one of the people Fergus spoke of."

"Yes, I suppose I must." The elf's eyes traveled, very slowly, over Jennie's form. "I see my information exaggerated only slightly. You are much better looking than I had been led to believe."

Jennie rolled her eyes. Her looks were hardly something she was concerned about. "Flattery stops here."

"Ooh, Hawke, you can't say that to Zevran," Isabela said. "If he can't use flattery, he can't talk."

"Then we'll all be better off."

"Ah, you deadly beautiful people. May I say you remind me somewhat of my beloved Warden?"

"Save it," Jennie snapped. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

"Oh, no, my dear Champion. That, I do not."

Zevran was about to say more when the door of the Hanged Man opened again, letting a stream of morning light into the dim interior. Anders paused in the doorway, his eyes drawn immediately to the sleeping dwarf. "No. No, no, no. Of all people, why him? Why me?" He crossed the room and stood in front of the dwarf. "Wake up, you big smelly tin can!"

The dwarf came awake with a snort, blinking hard as he smacked his lips together. He looked blearily up at Anders, recognition lighting up his face. "Sparkle-fingers!" A scowl quickly followed the smile, and he stood up, grabbing a handful of the front of Anders's coat. "I have half a mind to bash your head in, leavin' us like that."

"Nice to see you, too, Oghren," Anders squeaked.

"That Justice blighter's in there, too, ain't he? How in the Trenches are ya, Justice? Got yer fill of the mortal realm yet?" Oghren bellowed into Anders's face.

The mage closed his eyes, his lip curling in disgust. "I see your attention to your oral hygiene is as perfunctory as ever."

"Now you're here, you can make it sweet as flowers again. What happened to your pretty dress, mage-boy?"

"I got rid of it. Too bad you couldn't get rid of your face."

The mage and the dwarf glared at each other for a few seconds before bursting into laughter and hugging each other.

"Never thought I'd be sayin' this, but I missed ya, boy."

"Same here, my disgusting friend."

The two ambled over to Hawke's table, where Anders made introductions.

At last, the door opened again and Fergus stepped in, with Sebastian right behind him. The two men were deep in conversation.

"You know Evarts," Sebastian was saying. "He got back on the horse and tried it again."

"I'm surprised he didn't break the horse." Fergus laughed, his eyes crinkling, and Jennie was struck again by how much younger he looked when he smiled.

"Came close," Sebastian said. He looked across the room at Jennie, his blue eyes warming. She nodded at him, feeling the usual odd mix of emotions in his presence.

This was no time to dwell on that, however. She frowned at Fergus. "You took your time."

"You said 'morning'. You gave no specific time."

She studied him closely, but couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

Fergus shrugged, no hint of humor in his eyes. "It didn't strike me as my place to speculate on what time you arose."

Jennie swallowed the acerbic reply that came automatically to her lips. "Very well. In future, I will be sure to be more specific. Now, if we can get started?" She gestured to the table behind her. Fergus nodded, skirting around her and taking a seat. Everyone else followed suit. Jennie stood at the head of the table and cleared her throat. "I think we're all here. Aveline's still in Orlais, but she wouldn't have been able to join us on this mission, anyway."

"What is our mission, exactly?" Anders asked.

"We are going on a … bit of a search and rescue mission," Hawke said. She had been about to say more, but her eye caught Fergus's gaze and he shook his head ever so slightly. "It seems likely to take a great deal of time and involve camping in tents and traveling through unfamiliar terrain."

"Camping?" Varric asked, his mouth twisting unhappily.

"Oh, my fabulous new dwarven friend, how you will love camping. The swims in still ponds, the—"

Oghren cut Zevran's rhapsodies off, smacking the elf on the back with a thwap that resounded through the room. "Don't let swishy here fool ya. He griped about the cold, the dirt, the food, the booze … It was a relief to kill that sodding Archdemon just to shut 'im up!"

"It is a relief to know that Thedas's greatest enemy was killed in such a good cause," Fenris said, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Zevran.

Relaxing in his chair, Zevran lifted his teacup in a toast to Fenris. "Is he always so … glowery?" he asked Isabela, not taking his eyes off Fenris.

"Always."

"How intriguing." The challenge was evident in the smirk on Zevran's face. Fenris practically glowed with his outrage, but he kept silent.

Jennie rolled her eyes. Another Isabela—just what she'd needed. "At any rate," she said loudly, and both tattooed elven faces broke off their staring contest and looked up at her. "We have been asked to assist in this mission by the Teyrn of Highever," she gestured to Fergus, who nodded at the assembled company. "And I have agreed. The rest of you can consider whether you choose to accompany us or not—I would appreciate the assistance of as many of you as I can get."

Fenris cleared his throat, and Jennie glanced at him. "It occurs to me that it might be wise to find a task we could perform together, to give us all an idea of how … well we might work together." He narrowed his eyes at Zevran, his meaning clear.

"Good thought." Fergus nodded. "Do you have any tasks at hand that might be suitable?"

"I'll have to give it some thought," Jennie said. "I may. If not, there are always gangs out at night that could be removed."

Fergus sat up suddenly, glancing at Fenris and then at Sebastian before looking at Jennie. He frowned, staring at her as though trying to remember something. "Is this something you've been doing for a long time? Seeking out gangs at night?"

"A few years," Varric said, nodding. "Hawke here has a positive genius for the task. I should tell you—"

"No need." Fergus moved his gaze to Varric, and then to Bianca, staring at the crossbow speculatively.

"Is this all in your party, then?" Hawke asked him. "You and Zevran and Oghren?"

"Yes. Others wished to come, but there were complications."

Anders looked at Oghren. "The Grey Wardens let you go?"

The dwarf spat eloquently on the floor, leaving no one with any illusions as to how much he cared about the Grey Wardens' opinions.

"Fine." Jennie took a quick survey of her people. She had a fairly good idea of who was and wasn't willing to come along, but she'd leave it up to them to decide. "Let's meet here tomorrow morning at eight. I'll have something for us to do then." 

Fergus looked as if he was about to argue, but then he sighed and nodded. "As you wish."  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Zev and Oghren wanted to discuss the Champion's companions, but Fergus shook his head distractedly. A memory was nagging at him, and he wanted some peace and quiet to rack his brains. Hawke and her people seemed strangely familiar. He knew he'd seen the elf before, and that crossbow …

Then it came to him. A rainy night in Kirkwall, years ago, when he was providing a temptingly incompetent noble distraction while Wulfric and Morrigan left town. The group of mercenaries, led by a woman archer. He should have recognized Sebastian at the time, but it had been years since they'd seen each other at that point, and no one could have expected the Sebastian Vael he'd once known to show up wearing Andraste's face on a belt buckle. At least, not in any sincere sense.

Fergus stuck his hands in his pockets. Everyone he spoke to said this Hawke was the best—confident, powerful, intelligent. But his impression of her simply didn't jibe with what he'd been told. She seemed edgy, impatient, snappish. He acknowledged that he had brought her a task she wasn't looking forward to, and one she could hardly say no to … but it seemed something deeper.

Whatever her issues, Fergus thought to himself, walking more briskly, she'd need to get over them. Or she'd find herself demoted to second-in-command while he took charge.


	4. We Go Together

Fergus was awake bright and early the next morning. He wasn't about to get into another argument with Hawke about his timing, much as he would have loved to have enjoyed the rare peaceful sleep he'd had the night before. So many of his nights were broken by dreams, equally disturbing whether they were good or bad. He woke from them in anger, in tormented longing, in sorrow, in a desperate need to do something. It burned in him that he'd been so helpless when the people he loved were in danger.

He rubbed his eyes, splashing water onto his face from the pitcher next to his bed. Another long day ahead. He wondered what kind of test Hawke had dreamed up for them. It made sense that she would want to see how their two groups would work together, but still … it felt as though this girl was asking him to prove himself for her. Of course, he thought, buckling on his serviceable old splintmail, it was as much her proving as his. After all, he hadn't paid her anything yet. If he didn't like the way she worked—and there was far more of the mercenary about Hawke than he had been led to believe—he could always put a stop to the whole thing. Or so he told himself. Deep down, he knew there were few people in Thedas who had the time and resources to help him and were also trustworthy. And what was so bad about being a mercenary? After all, Zev was one of Wulfric's best friends, had helped him save all of Thedas, and the elf was an assassin who openly admitted to enjoying his work.

Still, something about the blunt discussion of money, the way they had gone through those dead men's pockets that rainy night when he had first met Jennie and her companions … it wasn't entirely civilized. Fergus thought briefly of Oriana, so intelligent, so quiet, so genteel. She had gotten her way through a woman's traditional wiles, and had made him feel good about giving in. He pressed his hand over his chest, where a gold medallion hung, carved with the faces of his wife and child.

"I will never forget," he promised them, as he promised every morning. Beyond a doubt, he knew that his parents would want him to move on, to rebuild the Cousland legacy, to find happiness elsewhere. But love couldn't take root in the tainted fields of Ferelden, or grow amidst the crumbled ruins of Highever Castle. Part of Fergus hoped that this trip would shake him up, that he would come home ready to move on. Because if he couldn't … what good was he to anyone?

That concern was for the future, however. For today, there would be a battle to fight.

Zev was waiting for him in the entry hall of the expensive inn. "My dear Teyrn, surely you cannot allow yourself to be seen in such … aged and disreputable armor?" Zev himself was resplendent in custom-made dragonbone.

"Master Wade's work, I see."

"It is, indeed. He was most disappointed in it." Zev's eyes twinkled.

"A gift from my brother?"

"Yes. Some day I will tell you the story … or perhaps he will." The elf's brown eyes softened. "I will be glad to see him again."

"Zev, did you and Wulfric … No, I don't think I want to know."

"Well, you know what they say, Fergus. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you." Zev's laugh rang out, turning heads throughout the inn.

"Let's just go," Fergus said. He liked the assassin well enough, but the persona the man put on did get tiring. He wondered how long he would have to know Zev to see the man beneath the façade. Wulfric probably had, he thought. Knowing Wulfric, it would have been the body beneath the armor before the man beneath the body. His younger brother had never been took picky when it came to taking his pleasure.

"As you wish, my Teyrn." Zev bowed gallantly, allowing Fergus to precede him.

The Hanged Man reeked of that horrible stew the bartender made and the even more horrible alcohol, which the bartender probably also made. Fergus wrinkled his nose. How did anyone manage to live here? He pushed the door open, greeted by the sight of Oghren hunched over a table, shoveling stew into his mouth as fast as he could go.

Jennie was there, as well, armored in heavy leather. Fergus scanned the room to see which of her companions would be joining them. The overdressed dwarf, who held a monstrosity in his hands that could only be a weapon of some kind. The tattooed elf, whose sword was as tall as he was. The scantily clad pirate, who carried two daggers Fergus could see and probably quite a few that he couldn't. The mage, who Fergus vaguely remembered meeting while Wulfric was stationed at Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine. He'd seen the dwarf, the elf, and Hawke in action, although that had been a long time ago. In theory, they'd learned to work together better now than they had then.

"Sebastian isn't joining us?" he asked Hawke, after the pleasantries of greeting had been perfunctorily exchanged.

"His commitment to the Chantry doesn't allow him to be gone so long. He's very devoted to the Grand Cleric."

"Ah. I have to tell you, that's not the Sebastian Vael I used to know."

"Tell me all about it," Isabela purred, suddenly appearing at his side and attaching herself to his arm. "I've always wanted to hear stories about his former life."

Fergus raised his eyebrows, removing his arm from her clutches. "If he won't tell you, I'm quite certain it's not my place to."

"Spoilsport."

"Isabela," Hawke snapped. The pirate pouted, but her eyes twinkled. Hawke turned to look at Fergus. "This is the group that has agreed to accompany us. And I believe I've found exactly the task that needs to be accomplished before we leave." Her gaze moved to Zevran. "You failed to inform me that you are being hunted by the Antivan Crows, Serah Zevran."

"Please, beauteous creature, call me Zev. All my friends do. And one hardly announces such a connection—the Crows like to think the only way to escape them is to die, and I like to think otherwise."

"Well, you, Zev, can call me Hawke. All my friends do. And your past seems to have caught up with you. On my way home last night, a man named Nuncio—"

"Caldera Lanos," Zev finished with a groan. "Yes, I have the misfortune of having made his acquaintance."

"He claims your acquaintanceships are short-lived, that you killed a number of his people, including women and children."

Zev's brown eyes hardened. "The Crows are an equal opportunity employer, and the women are often much, much deadlier than the men." Fergus thought he saw sadness flash across the assassin's face for a moment. "And the children are Crow trainees, as I once was."

"I thought as much." Hawke nodded briskly. "At any rate, in Kirkwall we have a low tolerance for Crows solving their problems here, so it seems that if we deal with Nuncio and his friends, it works out well for all of us, don't you think?"

"You are as wise as you are beautiful."

"Look, elf, that flattery nonsense doesn't fly with me. Lay off, or we're going to have a very short acquaintance. Am I clear?"

"As crystal."

Fergus had never heard the assassin's tones so clipped. He glanced from Zev to Hawke, both of whom seemed equally annoyed. "Do I take it that we know where these Crows are?" he asked.

Hawke nodded brusquely.

"Then what are we soddin' waitin' for?" Oghren bellowed. "Let's go eat us some Crows!"

"My diminutive friend!" Zev said, his good humor restored. "I did not know you were interested in such activities, or I would have—"

"Keep yer tongue in yer mouth, poncy, or you'll be feelin' the business end of my axe up yer backside."

"You have such a way with words."

"Charming companions you've chosen to travel with," Fenris muttered to Hawke. "Are you certain this is a wise idea?"

"Maybe they'll settle down once we've gotten started," she said.

"Don't bet on it," Anders said. "I've heard them go on like that in the middle of a battle."

Jennie sighed, closing her blue eyes momentarily. Then she opened them, her gaze setting firmly on Fergus. "We're going now, out to the Wounded Coast. Keep your people under control."

'My people'? he thought. They were hardly that. If anything, Zev and Oghren were Wulfric's people. "Of course," he said to Hawke, hoping the elf and the dwarf would play nice today.

They followed Hawke and her team out of Kirkwall and along a sandy path high atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. Fergus felt a pang of homesickness for Highever and for the waves that crashed on the cliffs there. How long would it be before he saw them again?

Hawke stopped them all. "Here's the plan. Fenris, Varric, and I will take Zev to the Crows, as if we've captured him. Anders, you'll go to that vantage point and be ready with an ice spell for the bodyguard, who looks like the biggest threat. The rest of you will wait for Anders's signal and attack after that."

Zev's eyes narrowed as he studied Hawke. "And if they are too powerful for us?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think they will be?"

"They are Crows."

"We've handled Crows before."

"We shall see." The assassin made no further complaint, submitting to being tied up by Fenris. He made no salacious comments during the process, however, which expressed his reservations loud and clear—at least to Fergus.

Fergus followed Anders to the vantage point Hawke had indicated, watching her walk toward the assembled Crows. She was tall for a woman, and seemed even taller because she was so slender. Her body was all angles rather than curves, although today's leather armor concealed her thinness better than the tunic she had worn two days ago when he spoke to her in her home. Her blonde hair was cropped very short, accentuating the length of her face and the hollows of her cheekbones. It wasn't a particularly flattering style, and he wondered why she wore it that way.

She stopped in front of a man in very fancy chainmail that looked more for show than for actual use, crossing her arms and jerking her head in Zev's direction.

Fergus enjoyed the triumphant look on the Crow's face as he gazed at Zev, knowing as he did what was really in store for the Crow cell.

And then the entire cell surrounded Hawke and the others, cutting off any means of escape. Fergus sighed. He should have known her plan was too easy; he remembered Oriana telling him tales of the Crows' exploits and their prowess. He could have kicked himself for allowing Hawke to put her people in the middle of an ambush like that.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Anders said as Fergus tensed next to him. "Give her a minute."

"They'll all get killed."

"No one has yet."

Fergus nevertheless moved down to join the others. "On my signal," he said quietly.

"Wait for Hawke," Isabela said. "She knows what she's doing."

"They've been ambushed!"

"Oh, the Crows set a trap? How unlike them." Isabela grinned.

Fergus shook his head, moving closer so he could see what was happening. It spoke well of Hawke that her companions had such blind faith in her, but these were Crows. She needed help.

As they came into his view the Crow leader was laughing at Hawke, while one of his subordinates closed in on Zev. Then Fenris flashed blue, his bare hand slicing through Zev's ropes. Zev turned, flipping a dagger end over end. It lodged in the eye of the Crow who'd been sneaking up on Zev. The man took two more steps and then fell heavily onto the sand.

Hawke was already throwing herself to the side, rolling to a more advantageous position. Varric had fallen back, swinging the heavy stock of his crossbow into the crotch of the Crow behind him. The man doubled over in pain and Varric gave him the pointed end of the crossbow in the mouth.

Fenris, still glowing, had his sword out and had leaped in the air, bringing the blade down in a swift two-handed blow. Now Anders raised his hand, ice crystals forming on his fingers. His fingers flexed and contracted, and the large bodyguard stood still, frozen, if only for a moment. Fergus drew his sword and charged, swinging at the first Crow he saw, pleased that his battle skills were there at the tip of his fingers just when he needed them, despite how long it had been since he'd engaged in serious combat. The other man parried and Fergus bashed him back with his shield before thrusting the sword into the Crow's stomach.

The others were on the move now, Oghren's berserk bellow echoing through the camp. One of the Crows looked up in consternation and a little fear as the crazed dwarf came screaming into the midst of them, his axe already moving. Isabela appeared on the other side of the staring Crow, burying her daggers in the back of his neck.

Fergus was beset by Crows on both sides, making it hard to keep track of the rest of the battle. High above he could see the mage put his hands together, opening his palms out, as Isabela staggered under a blow. The wound closed itself, and she was back in action, sticking a dagger into the side of a Crow. Zev caught the same man from the other side. Fergus parried a sword blow, ducking under it and slashing his sword across the man's midsection.

The leader, Nuncio, lunged for Zev while the elf was distracted by a pair of Crows with wickedly curved daggers. An arrow flew through the melee and lodged itself at the base of Nuncio's neck. Fergus looked up, startled, to see that Hawke had already nocked another arrow and was taking aim at one of the dagger-wielding Crows. She appeared completely unruffled.

Fergus caught a sword blow on his shield, gritting his teeth at the impact, and thrust his sword above the shield, through the neck of the Crow.

Within a few more minutes all the Crows were down, and Zev was bending over Nuncio's body while everyone else scattered to loot the camp.

Anders came down and stood beside him. "Rather efficient, wouldn't you say?"

Fergus nodded. "She plans well. I'll admit, she had me fooled—I thought for certain she wasn't prepared for that ambush."

Isabela flipped open the lid of a chest, lifting a belt from it, and called Hawke over. The two women enthused over the belt for a few minutes before Hawke turned to another chest, nimble fingers deftly springing the lock.

Frowning, Fergus asked, "Why all the looting?"

Anders chuckled. "Why not? They're dead Crows, what do they need with their things? And you can find some interesting items, many of which are difficult to procure by other means. Like lyrium potions, and Antivan brandy, and often some really nice enchanted rings and things." He cast an amused glance in Fergus's direction. "I'm surprised you object. Your brother was a champion looter. Never left a chest unopened."

"Wulfric always did have a bit too much curiosity." Which, Fergus reflected, was why they were all in this mess in the first place. "Were you close? With Wulfric, I mean," Fergus added when Anders looked confused.

"Ah. Yes, I thought we were. And then one day I woke up and he had deserted the Grey Wardens." Anders chuckled. "Here I thought I was the big runaway."

"Well, didn't you run away?"

"He started it. What can I say, it looked like fun."

Fergus glanced at the mage. Unshaven, unkempt, his clothing torn and clumsily repaired, he bore little resemblance to the carefully coiffed man Fergus had first met at Vigil's Keep. "Has it been fun?"

"It's had its moments." There was a darkness in Anders's tone, and Fergus decided not to push the conversation any further.

Hawke joined them. "Nice work, Your Grace. I see battle skills are just like riding a horse."

"They do appear to be, yes," Fergus agreed. He felt strangely shy with her, now that he'd seen what she could do. "That was a very impressive shot you took on Nuncio."

"I've had lots of practice." Jennie smiled, clearly proud of her skill. As she should be.

"The lov—er, Hawke is a fine actress. She fooled Nuncio quite neatly," Zev said, a new respect in his eyes.

"Fine little scrap," Oghren said. "I was hopin' fer some real fightin', but I see all the Crows are as fragile as the elf here."

"Do you work with daggers, as well, Hawke, or just the bow?" Fergus asked.

"I'm proficient enough with daggers when I need to be," Hawke began. Isabela snorted, and Hawke grinned at her. "Isabela judges everyone by her own standards; no one's proficient enough for her."

Fergus was surprised at the way the humor lit up Jennie's face. She looked very different when she was pleased, he thought. "I'd be more than happy to spar with you, Hawke," he offered, wanting to keep that pleasant expression on her face.

Instead, apparently he'd said the wrong thing, because the amused light died out of her eyes. "I don't think that's a very good idea. We have … different styles." She cleared her throat. "So, Fergus, overall, what do you think? I was impressed with Zev's reactions and how quickly he picked up on our intent, and Oghren certainly slaughters with style."

The dwarf beamed.

Hawke went on, "I think we should be able to work together. Do you agree?"

Fergus nodded. He had some reservations about whether he was going to be able to let her take charge on a permanent basis, but there was no point in letting her know that now. It would come up soon enough … or maybe by the time she needed to make decisions he'd disagree with, he'd have learned to trust her. Either way, it was more important to get things under way here than to quibble.

"Then we should be ready to leave on the early tide three days from now. That gives all the rest of us time to wrap things up here in Kirkwall," she said when Fergus frowned, thinking sooner would have been better.

"If you think that's the earliest we can be ready."

Hawke began moving back up the path toward Kirkwall, motioning for him to walk with her. The others fell in behind them. Fergus heard Zev ask Fenris, "So, that glowing effect? The one you did with your hands? Can you do that with your entire body?"

"Shut up," growled the other elf, and Fergus didn't have to be looking at Zev to know just what speculative expression was crossing his face. Privately, he gave Fenris very little chance of being able to hold out against Zev's wiles. They'd spent a fair amount of time together since Wulfric left—privately, Fergus suspected Wulfric had asked the assassin to keep an eye on him. Faced with the assassin's relentless sensuality, Fergus himself had been tempted once or twice, and he wasn't interested in men. He had to give Zev credit, though. He had never pressed the issue on nights when the losses and the loneliness weighed so heavily on Fergus that he'd have slept with Flemeth herself just to feel something again. There was a depth in the assassin that Fergus wouldn't have expected.

"Fergus," Hawke was saying, and he brought his attention back to her.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, if it means that much to you, we might be able to leave a little sooner, but Varric has a lot of business ventures in the city, he'll need a little time to put them in competent hands, and, frankly, so do I. Bodahn can handle the bulk of my affairs, but not all of them." She sighed. "If Aveline was in town, it would be easier, but she's off on her honeymoon. Maybe we'll run into her in Orlais."

"Aveline is your friend the guard captain?"

"Yes. I hate to leave Kirkwall when she's not here to watch over it—there's a lot of trouble simmering under the surface here." She looked Fergus in the eye. "But I trust you when you say this is important, and as a Fereldan, as a person, I feel we all owe your brother a great debt. So if you think the extra couple of days is going to make a difference—"

He was impressed by her honesty and forthrightness. Absent-mindedly he spun the ring on his finger again. "No. Truthfully, I don't think it will. But I appreciate your offer." They walked in silence the rest of the way back to Kirkwall, but Fergus felt lighter and more confident than he had since he'd first felt the heat emanating from the ring.


	5. Making Love Out of Nothing At All

Everyone seemed to be having a great time at the party. Corff, the Hanged Man's bartender, was throwing it as a bon voyage bash for Hawke and her team—although privately Jennie thought it might be as much 'good riddance' as 'good luck'. They had a tendency to make a mess of his tavern. She imagined he was looking forward to a few months without their presence.

Leaning against the wall, Jennie surveyed the room. Fenris, Varric, Oghren, and Fergus were playing Diamondback. Surprisingly, they all seemed to be evenly matched. Even Varric's habitual cheating wasn't giving him an edge. Zev and Isabela were having a quiet, intense drinking contest in another corner. So far neither of them looked the least bit affected by the alcohol, and Jennie got the impression there was a lot of silent trash-talking going on between the two.

Anders wasn't there, having pleaded the need to fully organize his clinic for the healer who was standing in for him in his absence. He also struggled at parties—Anders enjoyed the atmosphere, but Justice hated it, and disagreements between the two tended to be painful for the mage. And Merrill had promised to see the whole group off in the morning. Jennie had some reservations about leaving the Dalish elf behind to fend for herself in the alienage. Bodahn had assured her he would look after Merrill, and Orana, the young elven girl Jennie had liberated from slavery under Danarius, Fenris's former master, was planning to move to the alienage and would be moving in with Merrill. Both elves were as sweet and innocent as they could be, at least on the surface, but Jennie hoped together they could withstand the toughening process.

With everyone else occupied, that left Jennie free to look for Sebastian. He wasn't much of one for parties, but he had come to this one to show his support for the rest of the team as they set off. As she skirted through the crowd looking for him, Jennie was conscious that her hands were trembling, and when she finally found him and their eyes met, it felt like a bolt of lightning hitting her in the chest, cutting off her breathing for a moment. Dizzily she walked toward him. Surely tonight was different than all the other nights, tonight would be special and he would finally see— She felt all the hopes she usually kept firmly buried bubbling up to the surface, knowing this was the last she would see of him for several months, at least.

"Hawke. It's a fine evening for a send-off," he said, smiling at her, his blue eyes lighting.

"Yes, it is a fine evening," she said breathlessly, and scolded herself for an idiot. "I mean, would you like to take a walk?"

"In Lowtown? I wouldn't think you'd be interested in such strenuous activity as a walk in Lowtown the night before you're to leave. You'd be sure to be set on by bandits," he clarified when she looked at him blankly.

"Oh. Of course, you're right. It's just that I won't see y—Kirkwall for a long time, and I wanted to—"

"I'd imagine you would." His eyes grew wistful as he looked over her shoulder. "I often wish I'd spent more time simply enjoying the beauty of Starkhaven." He looked back at Jennie, smiling again. "Still, Fergus is a good man, and he wouldn't ask for your help unless it was important."

"Did you know him well before the Blight?"

"Not very, no. He was closer to my brothers in age. He and Roddy, my oldest brother, settled down at much the same time. Their wives were close. Sad to think of that time being over now."

"So you met Fergus's wife?"

"Oriana. Yes, she was a lovely woman. From Antiva, and very gracious and cordial. Roddy's wife was also from Antiva, and they had known one another for many years, Anastacia and Oriana had." He looked down. "They rest at the Maker's side now; perhaps we should envy them instead of mourning for them."

Jennie studied his bowed head for a moment, seeing him as a friend instead of a man for once. "You believe that?"

"I try to. It is easier now, knowing how transitory are the pleasures of the flesh that I used to wallow in. But still, when this is the only life we ever know, how can we truly believe in the one to come?" He sighed. "As for me, I gave my life into the Maker's hands long ago. Wherever I am is where He thinks it is best for me to be. But this is not party talk, I'm afraid." Sebastian shook his head. "I shouldn't have come."

"No, I'm glad you came," Jennie said eagerly, putting her hand on his arm. "It wouldn't have been right without you here." Hesitantly, her heart pounding her ears, she whispered, "Sebastian …"

"Hawke, please. I think I have an idea of what you might say," he said, gently removing her hand. "And I simply cannot respond in that way. I'm truly sorry, my lady." His voice softened, and the timber of it fell to a depth that was intoxicating to Jennie. With a last wild hope, she thought perhaps he really was sorry, that he wished things could be different between them, but her heart sank as he continued. "I am promised to the Chantry, and to Starkhaven, and those are the only mistresses my heart can be governed by. There is no room for anything more … personal." He gave her a short bow. "I will take my leave, with your permission. May the Maker watch over you, and bring you down all the roads that you deserve to travel." His hand gently touched the top of her head, like a benediction, and he turned to leave.

Jennie wasn't sure what the last sentence meant—she only knew that it was clear there was nothing in Sebastian for her. She had known that all along, of course, since the first time she'd seen him, but somehow his smiling eyes and his gentle voice had been … soothing. The others all watched her, wanting something from her, even Varric. Anders and Fenris's eyes were so pleading, so needy; Merrill's resigned but longing; Isabela's hungry and predatory. Where the others wanted her feelings directed towards them, Varric wanted to see them directed anywhere that made a good story, and in some ways that was the hardest of all. But Sebastian wanted only to give peace, and Jennie had felt herself drawn to his side, wanting the peace he offered. Especially since her mother had been killed, leaving her completely alone, Jennie had hungered to put her head down on someone's shoulder and let them calm her troubled thoughts. Slowly she had built up in her mind a picture of Sebastian as the man she needed, but she'd always been afraid to approach him with her feelings.

Well, that dream was dead now. Better this way, anyway, she told herself with a wry grin at her own foolishness. How much worse it would have been if Sebastian had returned her feelings and she'd found that out the night before leaving on a months-long expedition. It would have been torture to tear herself away. This way, at least it was a relief to get away from the embarrassment.

She was done with the party, that was clear. Jennie stuck her hands in the pockets of her leathers, crossing the room to the card table. "Good-night, gentlemen. I trust you'll all be in bed with a clear and sober head in time to wake bright and early in the morning?"

"Yes, Hawke," Fenris said.

"I wouldn't miss it." Fergus glanced at his cards, but his mind didn't seem to be on them. "The sooner we leave the happier I'll be."

"Aye, missy. Oghren'll be with you, no worries about that," the dwarf said, throwing his cards down on the table with a disgusted sound. "Sodding dwarves, can't trust any of 'em!" he said, glaring at Varric.

"Don't worry, Hawke. I'll have these sheep sheared in plenty of time." Varric chortled as he leaned across the table to rake in the chips.

"Only if you start dealing yourself better hands," Fenris said, laying his cards down on top of Varric's. "Those are my chips, I believe."

Jennie grinned at Varric's disgruntled expression as the dwarf sat back, folding his arms.

"I don't see what you need with money, anyway, elf," Varric muttered. "You'll just spend it on wine."

Fenris shrugged, but Jennie could see the smile in his eyes. "Wine is quite expensive."

"All right, I'll leave you to it," Jennie said. She left the Hanged Man, staying in the shadows to avoid notice as she headed back to her mansion in Hightown. It loomed over her, grand and empty, and she thought to herself that this was one thing she wouldn't miss about Hightown. In many ways, she was sorry they had ever taken the Amell mansion back—they had all been happier in Uncle Gamlen's Lowtown hovel.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Zev leaned back in his chair, not breaking eye contact with Isabela. The pirate swallowed the shot glass full of liquor, banging it down on the table and narrowing her eyes at him. He smiled, enjoying the contest. So few people were evenly matched with his skills.

It would be a tremendous pleasure to travel with Isabela. To be sure, she was too flamboyant to be a Crow, but she possessed most of the necessary talents.

"How long are we going to continue this?" Isabela asked, watching as Zev lifted his own glass and tossed back the alcohol. "I'm bored, and I'd like to find some fun before we leave."

"My dear Isabela, is this not fun?"

"I can drink with you every night for months, Zev."

"Ah, it is the more amorous type of fun that you desire. And yet you do not consider me in your fun? You wound me."

"No, I don't. We both know the fun is in the chase, and you stopped being a pursuit a long time ago." Isabela frowned. She toyed with an empty glass before picking up the next full one and draining it.

"That is very true." An idea presented itself, and Zev considered it as he reached for his next glass. Why not, he thought wickedly. Wulfric would approve, no doubt—after all, he had done something similar. "Perhaps this journey could be made more interesting by extending the pursuit. In all directions." He winked at her.

"What do you mean?" Isabela looked at him suspiciously as he drank. Then her eyes widened as his meaning sank in. "No, you can't mean—we couldn't possibly!"

"Well, if you think you may not be skilled enough to accomplish the task …" Zev let the words trail off like a lure bobbing on the water, and, as expected, Isabela bit.

"You skinny little rat-bastard of an Antivan! Are you actually hinting that you think you're more seductive than I am?"

Zev shrugged one shoulder. "If the shoe fits, my dear."

"Oh, you'll pay for that one," Isabela said, but she was grinning, her eyes sparkling.

"Perhaps. Shall we agree on terms?"

"One hundred sovereigns that I can take the entire company to bed before you can."

"Done. Rules?"

"No lying—we can't tell stories about the other one being diseased, for example."

"But true stories are fair game." Zev smirked, entirely sure that he knew more stories about her than she did about him.

"Of course. How are we defining 'bed'?" Isabela winked at him. "In deference to your anatomy, and those of most of our marks, I suggest we define it as penetration of the private areas or the mouth."

Zev nodded. "I believe that sounds fair. Do we count Oghren, since as far as I know he is not one to find men attractive?"

"The bigger challenge for you, then." Isabela drummed her fingertips on the table thoughtfully. "We could make a loophole in the rules for you and Oghren—it would count if he were too drunk to know who you were."

"You mean that would not count for the others?" Zev feigned shock, grinning when Isabela laughed. "Of course it would not. Do we need to ask for evidence?"

"Where would the fun be in pretending? The whole point is the excitement of the chase—there's no chase if you say you did it and you didn't. What is money compared to the experience gained while winning?"

"My sentiments entirely. Ah, Isabela, what a delight you are."

"Why, thank you." She made a mock-curtsy in her seat, which only caused the hem of her short tunic to ride higher up her thighs. "I quite look forward to this, and not just to prove once and for all that my attributes are far more desirable than yours."

A thought occurred to Zev, and he held up one finger. "I would like to exempt Teyrn Fergus from this competition. He lost a great deal and is still suffering. I would not want to inadvertently cause him pain. Wulfric left his brother's welfare in my care, and I take that oath seriously."

"Understood and agreed." Isabela leaned forward in her seat. "In that case, I'd like to exempt Hawke as well. As far as I know, she's still a virgin, and I don't think it would be fair for either of us to take that from her as a game."

"Would we not be doing her a favor, removing that obstacle with experience and skill?"

"Possibly," Isabela said. "But it should be her choice. If she comes to one of us on her own, she's fair game, but she can't be pursued."

"I think that would be fair. The same rules apply to Fergus, then?"

"Done."

The two rogues smiled at each other across the table. The excitement in Isabela's eyes stirred Zev, and he stretched lazily, enjoying the beginnings of arousal. "Five sovereigns say I pluck one of these tender young things from the crowd tonight before you do. We may as well embrace the joy of diversity while we have it."

"Oh, you're on."


	6. What a Little Moonlight Can Do

The sun beat down on the weathered deck of the _Enterprise_. Most of Hawke's team was enjoying the sun, except for Oghren, who lay moaning and vomiting in his bunk. The big dwarf had trouble enough on land, and he was impossible on the sea. Anders was staying down below to mitigate the worst of the symptoms, for which Varric and Fenris were highly grateful—they had to share the cabin with Oghren, and the odor of vomit wasn't conducive to good sleep. Especially for Varric, who struggled with seasickness of his own. He dealt with it better than Oghren, at least, finding the open air easier on his stomach than the enclosed cabin. He was stretched out in a deck chair with a blanket tucked around him, watching Fergus practice.

"Don't you need stable ground for all that fancy footwork, Cousland?" he called out.

Fergus smiled, pushing his hair back off of his forehead. "Not always. It's good to practice in different atmospheres so that you're ready in case you have to fight in them." He looked at Jennie, who was leaning up against the rail and watching him. "Are you sure you won't spar with me?"

She shook her head. "I don't know why you would want to. My knife skills aren't nearly as good as Isabela's."

"Exactly why you should spar more, especially with a sword-and-shield fighter like myself, since that's the most common fighting style. Besides, Isabela won't come down from the rigging."

"Damn right I won't." Isabela's voice floated down from her perch. She spent as much of every day climbing the ropes as she could. There was no question, Jennie thought, looking up at the pirate, that Isabela was a different person at sea. Calmer, more in control, less flippant.

Nonetheless, Jennie didn't want to fight the man. "Come on, Isabela," she called beseechingly. "Give us all a show."

"You mean, unlike the one we already have?" Zev looked up, grinning. Isabela's hem flapped in the wind, although the ropes obscured the view considerably.

"Bugger off," Isabela called down, but her voice was tranquil.

"There, you see, Hawke?" Varric said. "Rivaini's not coming down, and Flash here is too comfortable to get up."

"What about Fenris?"

"Also too comfortable," Fenris said. He was stretched out on a bench in the sun, contentedly rocking with the boat and looking more relaxed than Jennie had ever seen him. "And your knife skills do require more training, Hawke."

"Thanks a lot." Jennie reached into her pack and drew out a set of blunted practice daggers. She resented having to perform for this man who had walked into her comfortable existence and pried her out of it. Without him, she could be at home, quietly reading or … well, she couldn't think of anything she much wanted to do in that big empty house by herself, but it was better than being ordered around. "Ready?"

For answer, Fergus stepped toward her, his shield moving in fast. She ducked at the last minute.

"Hey, I wasn't …" she began to sputter, but his blade was moving as well, and Jennie spun out of his way. So that's the way he was going to play, was it? She didn't stop to set herself this time, but leaped up, kicking at his midsection. Fergus jumped back to avoid the kick and Jennie launched herself off her back foot, stabbing at him with her right-hand dagger. He blocked that blow with his shield, his other arm swinging the sword. Jennie brought up her left-hand dagger and the two blades clashed, the sound ringing across the deck. They stared at one another for a moment, gauging the other one's next move, and then both stepped back, circling around each other.

Twenty minutes later they were still going and neither had scored a significant blow. Fergus had called a momentary halt to take his shirt off, and Hawke wished such a thing were acceptable for her, as well. The sun was hot and she was sweating so hard her own shirt was sticking to her. She rolled under a shield blow and came up behind Fergus, but he had turned before she could touch him. His arms and shoulders gleamed with sweat, and Jennie had to admit that he was a finely muscled man.

"Do you yield?" Fergus was smiling, an excited, almost feral grin, and his eyes glittered. He looked more alive than Jennie had ever seen him.

"Not a chance," she said, trying to hide how hard she was panting. She assumed he must be out of breath, too, but if he was, he hid it well. It occurred to her that maybe he was going easy on her, and the thought sent a rush of angry adrenaline through her.

"Good." He came at her again, bashing with the shield and swinging the sword, and Jennie leaped up onto the ship's rail to avoid the attack. She grabbed an overhanging rope for balance, spinning and kicking out. She caught him in the chest, and he staggered back with an "oof" of surprise. She pushed off from the rail while he was still off-balance, landing against his chest and knocking him to the ground. Straddling him, Jennie leaned down. "Do you yield?"

Their eyes met, and Fergus's widened, darkening with something Jennie found profoundly disturbing. Then he blinked and the expression was gone. "Yes. I yield." He pushed her brusquely to the side, getting up, leaving Jennie half-sprawled on the deck and blinking up at him in surprise. Fergus snatched up his shirt and bowed to her. "You are much better than I gave you credit for." He stalked off and Jennie frowned, puzzled. What had made him so angry? That he lost?

Fenris was only half paying attention, but three other pairs of eyes had watched the end of the fight avidly, and the same speculative expression passed across Zev, Isabela, and Varric's faces. Jennie missed them all, shaking her head and wiping her sweaty hands on her breeches. She got up off the deck and went below to check on Anders and Oghren.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the movement of the ship beneath him and the related and unpleasant movement of his stomach with it. He considered what he had just seen, the brief flash of … well, it hadn't quite been arousal, but it had certainly been a manly interest in Cousland's eyes as Hawke pinned him down. It had been equally clear that Hawke had no idea what had just happened there, and Varric pitied her. For all her competence and her fierceness, she was in many ways a fragile bird, more to be protected than Daisy. Yes, Cousland definitely had potential as a match for Hawke, but Varric would need to observe the man further to be sure.

He let his mind wander a bit, deciding how he would write that fight scene if it was the beginning of a romance between the two, and so he missed the beginning of what Flash was saying until he heard the cultured Antivan voice saying his name. His chair had moved slightly closer to Varric's. The broody elf was gone, possibly gone below to get out of the sun, but Rivaini hadn't moved from her place in the rigging.

"You want to run that one by me again?" he said.

"I was merely pointing out the beauty of the water and what a shame it is that you should not be able to enjoy it." The brown eyes were sympathetic and soft.

Varric rolled his eyes. "Clumsy, my friend. Very clumsy."

"Clumsy?" Flash blinked. "I was merely making conversation."

"Please. I'm ten steps ahead of the two of you and your little contest."

"Told you, Zev." Rivaini's voice floated down from the rigging. "We'd have been better off telling him from the start."

"Telling me what? That the two of you have a bet to see who can be the first person to sleep with the entire expedition? As if I couldn't have seen that coming the first day." Varric snorted. "I wish you luck, too. Let's see … the elf can't stand to be touched, Blondie's got a passenger who takes a dim view of that type of fun, Rowdy's always too drunk to perform, and I'm already spoken for." His hand strayed to Bianca's stock, caressing it. "Maybe you'll have some luck with Cousland." He looked at the two of them. "But I hope you've left Hawke off your list. This kind of stunt is the last thing she needs."

"We have," Rivaini assured him.

"You are all so protective of the young lady. Is there a fascinating story I am not aware of?"

Varric shrugged. "Not particularly fascinating, no. But she saved our lives, all of us, in one way or another. That kind of debt isn't easily forgotten."

Flash's eyes darkened, and he looked away, over the side of the ship. "No, my dwarven friend, that it is not. Very well, I shall respect her for your sake, and for Isabela's, until I can do so for her own."  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Late that night, when she assumed the rest of the party was sleeping, Isabela went up on the deck. In the short time they'd been onboard, the crew had already learned that Isabela knew her way around a ship and how to stay out of their way and they largely left her alone to do as she pleased. So none of the night watch paid much attention to her as she began to climb the rigging up the mainmast.

She had expected the sentry in the crow's nest, but what she hadn't expected was to be preceded on the crosstree by someone else.

Fenris glanced over at her as she straddled the beam next to him. "Am I in your way?"

"Not at all." They were silent for a moment, both gazing out over the ocean. "What brings you up here?" Isabela asked at last. She wouldn't have imagined Fenris as someone who enjoyed climbing a ship's rigging. The ship rolled slightly; Isabela rolled with it, and Fenris reached for an overhanging rope to steady himself.

"Memories," he said, and gave a short, humorless chuckle. He was silent for so long Isabela thought that was all the answer she was going to get. At last he continued, "When I fled my master, I stowed away aboard a ship not unlike this one. At night, I would sneak out for a breath of fresh air."

"The sailors didn't tell on you?"

"They had no reason to do so. I believe those who watched were glad for the company." In the starlight, Isabela could see his white hair gleaming as he looked out over the ocean. "It was my first taste of the sheer size of Thedas, the first time I had ever realized how much world lay beyond the borders of Tevinter, and how little even of that I had seen. I … cannot express how my mind, my soul, if I have one, expanded in that knowledge. I wanted to see what lay beyond the seas, to journey to the ends of the earth."

"From the sounds of it, that might be just what we're doing," Isabela said.

"Mm. Possibly so."

For the first time, Isabela found herself curious about his past. "Was that the first time you'd been aboard a ship?"

"No. I had been aboard several, but always with Danarius, never able to see beyond what he wanted me to see. That voyage, as I fled from him, was the first time I truly understood the meaning of the word 'freedom', and why it was worth fighting for. To control my own movements, to be able to climb as high as I wished when I wished … these simple privileges are beyond the reach of a slave." He gestured across the water, the light glinting off the lyrium embedded in his skin. "This view never fails to remind me that I am alive and free."

Isabela found herself profoundly moved, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Much of what he said was true for her as well—she had never been a slave, but the sea symbolized a different kind of freedom for her.

"I am sorry," Fenris said. "I am in your place, and no doubt you are weary of listening to me speak."

She bypassed the flirtatious line that sprang automatically to her lips. "No, stay. It might be nice to have company, for a change."

In the dim starlight, she thought she might have seen him smile.


	7. A Loaded Smile

It hadn't been easy to find a hotel in Val Royeaux that catered to nobles but also accepted those of Isabela's and Oghren's stripe, not to mention the elves. Jennie's blood had heated with each snooty remark and loftily delivered refusal. She admired Fergus's smooth facility with desk clerks and managers, and even more his seemingly endless supply of patience. By the end of the morning, she'd have been making her points with her fists, but Fergus continued to smile, charmingly, gently, with just a hint of condescension as befit his station.

Eventually, Fergus's polite persistence and a few coins slipped from Varric's hand into that of the manager found them comfortable rooms in a relatively decent part of the city. As soon as their belongings were settled, they met in Fergus's room.

"What is our first step, my silver-tongued Teyrn?" Zev asked, lounging on the bed as if he owned it.

Privately, Jennie wondered if he did. He and Fergus seemed very close. She felt a stab of irritation at the elf for assuming Fergus was in charge, but it was tempered by the knowledge of how far out of her element she was here in Val Royeaux. Later, on the road, she decided, would be soon enough to assert her authority. Here she would let Fergus lead. She crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the windowsill.

Fergus's eyes had been resting on her. When her movement signaled that she was waiting for him to speak, his gaze moved away and he cleared his throat. "An old friend of my brother's lives in Val Royeaux, and I think she can be very helpful—"

"Helpful with what?" Anders broke in. "When are you two going to tell us what the actual mission is?"

"When we're outside this city, Anders, like I've told you before," Jennie snapped. "There are reasons to keep our destination and our purpose secret until then." Anders frowned, and Jennie softened her tone. "We'll be happy to tell you everything when we're far from listening ears and prying eyes, but for now, I'm asking you to trust me."

After a moment, Anders nodded, relaxing against his chair.

"That goes for the rest of my team, as well," Jennie said. "It isn't that we don't trust you, but we need to keep this under wraps as long as we can."

Varric and Fenris nodded, and Isabela's eyes twinkled—Jennie was pretty sure Zev had already told the pirate what they were doing. Anders sighed. "All right, Hawke, if that's the way you want it."

"It is. Thank you for understanding." Jennie looked back at Fergus, nodding slightly.

Fergus began again. "Zev and Jennie and Isabela will come with me—"

This time he was interrupted by Oghren. "If yer goin' to see Chantry-tits, I'm comin' with ya."

"My friend, she is not going to allow you to look at them," Zev said, smiling indulgently at the dwarf.

"Never gonna find out if I don't get to see 'er," Oghren pointed out.

Fergus looked at Zev, raising his eyebrows, and Zev shrugged and nodded. "All right, Oghren, you can come, too. Anders, Varric, Fenris, that leaves the three of you to do the marketing."

Varric groaned. "How do you expect me to get anything done with these two bickering all the time?"

"They'll behave," Hawke said. "Right?" She glared pointedly at both men.

"Of course," Fenris said, glancing at Anders with a look of superiority.

"If he can control himself, I certainly can," Anders said.

"Very well, then." Hawke restrained her smile at the two of them, predictable as always.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The next morning, Varric and his two glowering companions left the hotel and headed out into the streets of Val Royeaux. Varric had been dragged this far from Kirkwall once before when Bartrand insisted on his presence. Blondie was too busy eyeing every Templar he saw with a worried eye to notice his surroundings. The elf had clearly never been to Orlais before, and he divided his time between gazing around him in admiration and glaring at the many people who eyed him suspiciously and began to whisper as he passed. Varric was aware of the admiring glances of young ladies along the route, as well, and while he and Anders got their fair share of the attention, the elf was the recipient far more often. 

Anyone else, charged with outfitting an entire expedition, might have made a list. Varric needed no such impediment. He walked into the first store, a dry goods purveyor, and marched up to the counter, smiling affably up at the proprietor. He refused to lift himself up on his tiptoes or make any other concession to the fact that the counter was built for someone far taller than he was. He simply waited with his arms folded until the shopkeeper noticed him.

At last the man leaned over the counter. "Anything I can do for you?" he asked in overly flowery Orlesian, clearly hoping that Varric wouldn't speak it.

A covert glance at Blondie and the elf indicated that both men understood at least a little of the clerk's speech, which would make this whole day much easier. "Why, yes, my good man," Varric replied, in flawless court Orlesian. He enjoyed the storekeeper's taken aback expression. "We are outfitting an expedition for Kuren Mykonor, Lord Deshyr of Orzammar, and we came to pick up his order."

"Kuren who?"

"Mykonor!" Blondie said in exasperation. "Maker, what does it take to get good service in this town?"

"I am sorry … gentlemen … but I know of no such person."

A low growl came from behind Varric, and he could tell without looking that the elf had adopted a menacing stance. The shopkeeper paled slightly.

"Perhaps I was hasty."

"Hasty? Do you know what my lord would do if he knew how you have treated his emissaries?" Varric moved closer to the proprietor, lowering his voice. "Think, man. How many dwarves do you know who are powerful enough to have both a human servant and an elf whose skin is inlaid with the purest lyrium?"

"That's … lyrium?"

"Oh, yes. You should see what he can do with it, too. Shall I have him demonstrate?"

"Uh …"

"Or should my lord take his money elsewhere?"

"Of course not." The storekeeper's Orlesian was considerably more workmanlike all of a sudden. "I would be happy to supply his lordship; I had not been told anything of this order."

"Hadn't been told?" Varric allowed a pained expression to cross his face. "Isn't that always the way, you trust an underling to deliver a message and the next thing you know you're standing in a store with egg on your face."

"Oh, no, no. Surely not egg. If you can tell me what was needed, I am certain I can find enough supplies to suit Lord …"

"Mykonor."

"Lord Mykonor's needs."

"You are a prince among storekeepers." Varric motioned to the others to wait and then went into the back with the storekeeper, making out the list of necessities with him and arranging for them to be picked up on their way out of town.

The proprietor gushingly bowed them out of the store, and Varric chuckled to himself as they moved on to the horse-trader's establishment on the edge of town.

"Pardon me if I am incorrect," the elf began, in a tone that said he knew perfectly well he was no such thing, "but you did not appear to provide payment for the goods you ordered."

"No. No, I didn't. Because I happen to carry with me the seal of Kuren Mykonor, Lord Deshyr of Orzammar, and was able to give the storekeeper a document he can take to the merchant's guild for his payment."

"How did you get such a thing?" Blondie asked.

"Trade secret. Let's just say that when my old friend Kuren realizes that a good portion of his gold has gone to an Orlesian shopkeeper, he may consider paying what he owes next time." Varric smiled with satisfaction, thinking of Kuren's face when he got the transaction report. When was the Merchants' Guild going to realize that stiffing House Tethras only cost them more in the end?

The elf frowned, crossing his arms. "Hawke has gold; the Teyrn has gold; you certainly have gold. Why is this subterfuge necessary?"

"Mykonor owes me." Varric grinned. "Besides, I do it for the jazz."

"The … jazz?"

"Never mind," Blondie said. His brown eyes had brightened with recognition, and Varric saw in them glints of the man he had once been, before the disastrous merging with Justice. The mage looked over at the elf. "He just means it's more fun this way."

"Isn't that what I said?" Chuckling, Varric led the way to the edge of town. There was horse-trading to do. Varric had never bought a horse; never ridden one, either, but he was sure he'd be a natural at both.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jennie had to fight to keep her chin from rising so she could gaze at the rooftops and spires. The last thing she wanted to do was be seen as some kind of gawking Fereldan from the sticks, but the buildings in Val Royeaux were so tall and beautiful and the people so exotic, she couldn't help looking around her in awe. None of the others were acting like country rubes, though, not even Oghren, so she made every effort to hold in her curiosity.

To distract herself from the scenery, she dropped back to talk to Isabela. "Who is this friend of theirs?" she asked, shifting her shoulders uncomfortably; if she lived to be a hundred, she'd never get used to these noble outfits. Their fabric was so soft, yet so much more constricting and uncomfortable than her leather armor.

The pirate grinned. "Leliana. She's interesting."

"You know her, too?"

"Yes. I had the rare pleasure of an … encounter with her and the Hero during the Blight. It was in Denerim, just before I got the Void out of there."

"Wait, you slept with the Hero of Ferelden and you never told me about it?" Jennie stopped walking, staring open-mouthed at Isabela. "Did you tell Varric?"

"Of course." Isabela put a friendly arm over Jennie's shoulders. "But, sweetie, there are stories I tell you, and stories I tell Varric. And the truth is somewhere in between. Maybe you can get Zev to tell you this one—he was there, too."

"The Hero of Ferelden and … three other people?" Jennie could feel herself blushing just talking about this. She had trouble enough imagining being intimate with one person. Three was beyond her capacity. "What was he like, anyway?"

"Wulfric? He was … big." Isabela's voice was warm, her eyes glowing and faraway.

"Tall, you mean?"

"That, too. Stood half a foot higher than his brother. I imagine that must have made for some interesting fights." She looked speculatively at Fergus. "But he seems like the type who could have handled a larger little brother and still stayed firmly in charge."

"So, about Wul—the Hero." Jennie couldn't quite bring herself to use his name. She still had a hard time believing she was actually going to meet him, if this trip went well.

"Oh, yes. Gentle, for a big man, but … haunted. He was into it, but …" Isabela shook her head. "I wasn't surprised when I heard he'd left Leliana for someone else. She didn't quite seem to be what he was looking for."

"In what way?"

"She was clingy. Needy. And he didn't seem to like that."

Jennie thought about that for a minute. She could understand how having someone constantly asking you for something could get tiring. "You know, I'm glad to be meeting Leliana. I've been wondering for years if she could possibly be the Sister Leliana I used to know in Lothering."

"I think that's where they picked her up."

"I guess I'm about to find out, then." 

Fergus was standing near the door of a small building in the Chantry district. He waited courteously for Jennie and Isabela to precede him through the door, Zev and Oghren bringing up the rear of the group.

A balding man with the sunburst of a Tranquil mage stood up from behind a desk. "May I help you?" he asked. He looked at Fergus as though he knew that was what he was supposed to do, but with no interest.

"We have an appointment with Sister Leliana."

The Tranquil bent over a book on the desk, flipping a few pages, his forehead creased. His finger paused in the middle of a page, the forehead smoothing out. He straightened. "Yes. You do."

"Where can we find her?" Fergus seemed unmoved by the mage's blank demeanor, but Jennie found it profoundly disturbing. She couldn't help picturing Bethany or Anders acting this way, and the images made her ill.

The Tranquil was giving Fergus directions to Sister Leliana's office, and they all trooped up a flight of stairs and down a plushly carpeted hallway that served to muffle their footsteps. The faint scent of incense underscored Jennie's sense that they were in a Chantry, and she felt suddenly like a little girl kneeling with her family, bowing her head during the Chant.

Fergus knocked sharply at the door the Tranquil had indicated, the sound breaking the hush that had fallen over all of them.

"Enter!"

A red-haired woman in Chantry robes stood up as they came in, walking toward Fergus with her hands held out. "Fergus, I am so glad you are here." Her voice was smooth and flowing, the Orlesian accent suiting it beautifully. Jennie recognized her immediately, although somehow she didn't remember Sister Leliana being quite so lovely.

"Leliana, so nice to see you again." Fergus's smile was wide and genuine as he took her hands, giving her a kiss on both cheeks.

"And Oghren, and Zevran, and Isabela." Jennie thought the brightness of Leliana's smile may have dimmed as she greeted Isabela. Something certainly seemed off about the two women's embrace. Leliana then turned to Jennie. "You must be the Champion of Kirkwall; your exploits are already the subject of many songs and stories. I am enchanted to meet you."

"Actually, we've met before." With Leliana's beautiful blue eyes trained on her, Jennie felt suddenly shy. "In Lothering, when you were living at the Chantry there."

"Oh?" Nothing could have been sweeter and more friendly than Leliana's smile as she tilted her head slightly to look Jennie over. And then she destroyed the moment with her next words. "I remember you now, you are that charming boy Carver's sister, are you not? Tell me, is your brother well?"

"No. He was ripped to pieces by an ogre when we fled," Jennie said bluntly, irritated by yet again being stuck in her brother's shadow. He'd been dead almost six years, and he was still more memorable than she was.

To give Sister Leliana credit, Jennie's rude words didn't fluster her a bit. She blinked, her hand rising to her lips. "I am so sorry. What a devastating loss that must have been to your family. You have my condolences." She patted Jennie on the shoulder. "I am certain that Carver's strong sword arms are a benefit to the Maker somehow."

Jennie let that one go. If she had to guess, she imagined Carver was probably arguing with the Maker. He certainly had argued with everyone else.

Fortunately, Sister Leliana's interest in Jennie had passed. She turned back to Fergus, gesturing to a low settee and perching carefully next to him when he sat. "Now, delighted though I am to see you all, I have to confess I am also curious. What brings you to Val Royeaux?"

"We're only stopping on our way out, Leliana. We're all going on an expedition."

She clapped her hands with delight. "How lovely! I do miss adventuring."

"Miss the Warden and his big salami, more like," Oghren grunted. Zevran laughed, and Leliana shot them both a look that was decidedly less pleasant than the one she turned on Fergus afterward.

"Your brother and I were very close, as you know. But I always knew that I could never capture his heart. Deep inside, Wulfric was a wild man, not at all civilized. Morrigan suited him much better than I." Her laughing eyes and the toss of her hair served to make the dowdy Chantry robes look like fine fashion, and Jennie's heart was warmed by Leliana's generosity of spirit. Clearly, so was Fergus's. He leaned forward toward her, a warm smile on his face.

"You may be wondering why we came to see you, my dear Leliana," Zev said, a very faint edge to his voice. Jennie glanced at him in surprise.

"I am certain Fergus will tell me that in time. For now, it is lovely to be able to reconnect with old friends."

"Actually," Isabela said, "we were hoping the Chantry might have some more up-to-date maps than the ones we currently have."

Jennie hadn't expected Isabela to suddenly turn cartographer, but she supposed it did have to be among a sea captain's talents. And they did need maps.

"Why, so we do. The Chantry boasts the largest and most comprehensive collection of maps in all of Thedas," Leliana said, still looking at Fergus. "Maps of what area, may I ask?"

Zev cut in before Fergus could answer. "We are not entirely certain—our destination is still under discussion. Would it be possible for us to look at a selection of maps?"

"Allow me to ask my superiors. Usually the maps are kept private, not to be shared with just anyone, but I imagine for the Champion of Kirkwall and the Teyrn of Highever, exceptions can be made. I should have an answer for you tomorrow," Leliana said.

"Tomorrow?" Jennie asked in disappointment. She had hoped to set out tomorrow, not be stuck in Val Royeaux for an extra day.

"Yes, I am afraid these things must go through the proper channels. In the meantime, I have had the most delightful idea. Fergus, there is a ball being held tonight at the home of Lord Chardennes. I am sure I could procure an invitation for you and … some of your companions." Leliana glanced around the room, her meaning clearly excluding everyone other than Fergus and Jennie.

"I think that sounds interesting. I can't remember the last time I was at a ball."

"You mean Alistair has not held one to celebrate his marriage yet?" She shook her head, clucking her tongue affectionately. "This is what comes of marrying a warrior."

Fergus chuckled. "Actually, they've held a few. Unfortunately, the timing has never been such that I could attend. Ser Cauthrien is proving to be a gracious and elegant queen, as well as an intelligent and brave one. I think Alistair chose quite wisely. In addition, they are very happy together." He looked down for a moment, his eyes closing.

The room was quiet while he pulled himself together, and Jennie reevaluated her thoughts about his relationship with Zevran. Clearly Fergus still missed his wife very much.

"I meant no disrespect to Ser Cauthrien," Leliana said, her voice very gentle. "She is a lovely woman and of course she and Alistair are well-suited. They are very good for Ferelden."

"Yes, they are." Fergus looked up, smiling at her.

Leliana stood up, holding a hand out to Fergus in order to help him up from the low settee. "It has been enchanting to see you again, Fergus. And all of you." Her smile encompassed the rest of the room, and Jennie felt that Leliana was truly happy to have had them come by. "And I very much look forward to seeing you this evening, Fergus. I hope you will save me a dance."

"I'm afraid I don't dance, not since—not in years."

"Ah, but you must. Perhaps I can persuade you." Leliana's blue eyes looked up at him, her face soft and sympathetic. She must have cared very much for the Warden, Jennie thought, to be so concerned for his brother's welfare. Those warm blue eyes swept over her next. "Champion, it is so nice to have rediscovered an old acquaintance. I look forward to catching up with you this evening, yes?"

"Yes, of course. It's my pleasure."

Jennie and Leliana exchanged the two kisses that appeared so fashionable in Orlais before Leliana bade good-bye to Zev, Isabela, and Oghren. She had to forcibly push the dwarf away when his two kisses looked likely to turn into twelve.

They went back through the hushed hallway and down the stairs, past the desk where the Tranquil sat quietly, looking off into space. Emerging into the warm sunshine, Jennie felt unexpectedly chilled. She shivered, and Zevran smiled at her, one of the more genuine smiles she'd seen on his face.

"My sentiments precisely, Hawke." He moved closer, subtly increasing his pace until the two of them were walking well ahead of the rest of the group. "Tell me, what is your impression of the fair Leliana?"

"She seems like a warm, caring person," Jennie said. Having said it, though, she wondered if she thought it was true. She remembered the sharp glances Leliana had sent toward her former companions, the way she had focused all her attention on Fergus, the way she had remembered Carver and completely forgotten Jennie … "Or, at least," she amended, "Leliana seemed concerned that Fergus thought she was those things."

"Ah." Zev sounded pleased. "Why is that, do you think?"

"He's a powerful man, with influence, so it's worth having him on the Chantry's side."

Zev looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "That could be. Can you think of any other reasons?"

He seemed to be leading her toward something, and Jennie stiffened her back. "Why don't you come out and say what you mean?"

After a startled pause, Zev burst out laughing. "What a concept! Plain speaking, indeed. And on the streets of Val Royeaux, no less. Ah, Champion, Isabela was right. You are most refreshing." Still smiling, he said, "I would not allow the Chantry robes to fool you. Much, much more lays behind those sparkling eyes. Were I you, I would remain close by our favorite Teyrn this evening."

"Won't you be there?"

"Me? Why, Champion, I was not invited." His eyes twinkled, however, and Jennie was sure that somehow he would find a way to be there.


	8. Who Couldn't Dance with You?

"Isabela, why did I let you talk me into this? I look ridiculous." Jennie surveyed herself fretfully in the glass. Isabela had used some sort of clear gluey substance to spike her short blonde hair up in what she called an "artful tousle", and from somewhere had procured a simple dress of shimmering blue silk that left Jennie's collarbones and shoulders exposed. Jennie felt thin and bony and gawky in it.

"You look beautiful," Isabela said, rearranging the little puffed sleeves that rested on Jennie's upper arms. "All you need is some jewelry." She looked at them both in the mirror over Jennie's shoulder, and her expression brightened. "A-ha." From around her own neck, she took a gold amulet with a blue stone embedded in the middle, putting it on Jennie.

"What if I lose it? Or trip in these shoes and fall flat on my face? Or step on my dress and rip half of it off?" Fruitlessly, Jennie tried to tug at the dress's neckline, to pull it up and cover more of her bare white skin.

Isabela slapped her hand. "Stop that!" Her golden eyes glared at Jennie in the mirror. "You, my girl, are the Champion of bloody Kirkwall. You may be a badass Qunari-killer and one of the three most powerful bitches in town, but if you can't walk into a ballroom like a confident woman, you're going to lose everything you have."

"I've already lost everything I had, Isabela. What more can be taken from me than my entire family?"

"If you have to ask, maybe you don't deserve to have it." Isabela stepped back. "Hawke, whatever you think of yourself, you are a striking woman, and you have power and influence in a major city, which adds considerably to your allure. Men—and women—are attracted to you. They will despise you if you walk in there looking like you're sorry they have to associate with you. And being despised can lead to … very bad things."

Jennie looked back at the mirror, trying to see herself the way Isabela saw her. The blue of the dress brought out her eyes, that much was true, and the amulet broke up the expanse of white skin across her chest. The high waist of the dress made her small breasts seem larger, the poofy sleeves made her large shoulders seem smaller, and the skirt was narrowly cut but with enough fullness to make her seem slender rather than skinny.

"You see it now?" Isabela's voice was kind. She reached up, touching Jennie's hair. "I wish you'd let this grow out."

"It used to get in my face. I had to cut it." Jennie remembered all the times she'd been in the midst of a battle and had to push her long blonde hair back out of her face. Too fine to stay confined for long, sooner or later it always slipped out of pins and ribbons. First she'd cut it in a short bob, but stray wisps had blown into her face all the time, spoiling her shots. At last, in frustration, she had hacked it off herself, taking a perverse pleasure in seeing the silky blonde locks falling to the floor. In a family of black-haired people, that hair had always made her look and feel out of place. She hadn't been at all sorry to see it go.

"Mine doesn't get in my face."

"Yours is a lot heavier and more manageable than mine." Jennie smiled at her friend. "Thank you, Isabela. I mean it—I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd slink in there like an apologetic rabbit, and let all those stuck-up Orlesians walk all over you."

"Vividly put."

There was a knock on the door and Isabela went to answer it. Varric bustled in, his chest hair sleekly brushed and the stubble on his chin artfully trimmed to just the right length.  
"Varric, you smell delicious," Isabela said, bending down to sniff at his neck, making sure he had a good view of her assets. "I could just eat you all up."

"Rivaini. You're making Bianca blush." Varric grinned at her.

"Then maybe you should leave her behind." Isabela's tone sounded like a caress.

"Leave Bianca? Surely you jest. I made a vow when I slid that cocking ring on her."

"Ooh, and do you wear a matching … cocking ring?" Isabela managed to make that phrase sound positively filthy, her lips hovering just above Varric's.

"Wouldn't you like to know." Varric moved past her, looking at Jennie. "Hawke, you got dressed up! You'll set those Orlesians right on their rears."

Immediately she began to dismiss the praise, but a warning glance from Isabela halted the words. "Thank you, Varric," she said instead. Jennie attempted a small curtsy, feeling a bit silly as she did it.

"Are you ready, my fine lady? We shouldn't keep Lord Chanturelle—"

"Chardennes," Jennie corrected, careful to pronounce it the way Leliana had.

Varric beamed at her. "My charm, your brains, Bianca's looks … watch out, Orlais." He held out his arm to her and Jennie laid her hand on it, not feeling silly at all, despite the fact that he was over a foot shorter than she was. With supportive friends like these, how could she falter?  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fergus took a careful sip from his wineglass, enjoying the dry bite of the fine aged white. Whatever else you could say about Orlesians, they were splendid vintners. He couldn't subscribe to the standard Fereldan hatred of Orlais. They were neighboring countries, after all. Wallowing in hatred and fear was the same as wearing a blindfold—it's what his father had believed, and Fergus saw no reason to disagree with Bryce's wise counsel, even if it had been the fuel Howe had used to try to discredit the Couslands. Fortunately Alistair tended to agree with him, about Orlais and many other aspects of statecraft. What had begun as a friendship based on their mutual love for Wulfric had become one based on mutual liking and respect.

He was fairly well known in Val Royeaux, and had already had a profitable discussion this evening regarding a new trade route for a particular kind of Orlesian cheese. Fergus couldn't help but grin, thinking about Alistair's reaction to that piece of news. This cheese was a favorite of Ferelden's king, who was known to be passionate about fine cheeses, and it was normally hard to procure outside the small village where it was made.

There had been no sign of Leliana yet this evening, or of Hawke. Anders and Fenris had reported that their shopping expedition with Varric had been highly successful; both men wore similar smirks, which worried Fergus a little. They had plenty of money—there was no need to jeopardize the journey by running any kind of a scam, although he recognized that to many of the people he was traveling with, buying something and scamming it were virtually the same thing. Once more, Fergus questioned his choice of traveling companions, and wished he had felt comfortable going on this expedition with just Oghren and Zevran. He tapped the wooden ring against the base of his wineglass. The ring was still warm to the touch, but the temperature didn't seem to be rising. Hopefully whatever danger Wulfric was in, it would hold off until Fergus could arrive. He felt the same tight, panicked feeling in his chest that he always had when Wulfric needed to be rescued, whether it was from climbing too high up a tree or getting himself stuck in the pigpen or angering a jealous husband. Fergus might have been annoyed by the constant calls to come to his little brother's aid, but he had never failed to be there when Wulfric counted on him. He wasn't going to fail this time, he promised himself.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, and Serah Varric Tethras," announced the maitre'd, and Fergus turned his head, relieved that she had finally made it. It would have been very embarrassing if she hadn't shown up after Leliana had proffered them the invitations, which had undoubtedly been hard for her to procure at the last minute. He was surprised to see that Hawke was wearing a dress; he would have expected someone so determinedly unfeminine to wear a more manly tailored pants outfit or something. But then, he supposed she hadn't thought to bring any of her own finery on this trip; someone, probably Isabela, must have scrounged this dress. It flattered Jennie, though, making her look tall and arresting. Heads had turned to look at her all over the room. Fergus felt suddenly protective, and crossed the room toward her, weaving his way quickly between the other party-goers.

"I wondered when you would arrive," he said as he reached her.

"Oh. Isabela seemed to think it would be all right if I didn't arrive exactly on time; I told her to hurry."

"I didn't mean it as a criticism," Fergus said gently.

"Varric says he doesn't know where Zev went," Jennie said, stepping a little closer to Fergus so her voice wouldn't carry. "You think he's around here somewhere?"

"I think if he is, we won't know it until he wants us to."

"There you are!" Leliana's musical voice sounded behind him, and Fergus turned toward her with a broad smile on his face.

"Leliana!" Looking at her now, he wondered all over again what had possessed his brother to let this lovely girl get away. Vivacious, funny, intelligent, and beautiful, Leliana seemed like the type of woman who could have kept Wulfric well in line. Of course, Wulfric had never been fond of being kept in line, so maybe there was where the problem lay, Fergus thought. "So nice to see you again."

"And you, as well."

He could tell that she meant it. Her blue eyes were glowing with happiness and soft with concern, all at the same time. "Have you sampled the wine?" he asked, and immediately felt foolish for the inanity of the question.

"I have. But what I have not sampled is the dance floor." Her eyes crinkled ever so slightly as she smiled up at him. "I know you do not wish to dance, but you will do so for me, won't you? If you do not, there are these two men, with extremely large feet, who wish to dance with me, but they would ruin my poor slippers." She pointed a shapely foot, encased in a delicate white brocade shoe.

He swallowed, thinking of Oriana and how she had loved to dance. With her, it had been intimate, a prelude to lovemaking, all the spicier for being carried out in a ballroom in the sight of a room full of nobles. But he couldn't live in the past forever. "It would be my pleasure," he said to Leliana. Varric took the forgotten wineglass from his hand as he led her out onto the dance floor. Fergus began the traditional steps of the dance, thinking all the time of the taller, slimmer figure of his wife as he held the soft, voluptuous body of Leliana in his arms. She chattered on, but her honeyed words fell on deaf ears. He was caught for the moment in another world, a world that was gone forever.

To his great relief, the music stopped, and he was able to release Leliana. She smiled up at him, thanking him profusely, and he felt that she understood his speechlessness. "That was very nice, Fergus, thank you for honoring me so." Her soft lips parted in a gentle smile, and he found himself leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek, moved by her generosity.

From behind him, he heard Varric's voice. "Just the man I was looking for! Cousland, may I introduce Lord de Launcet, of Kirkwall? My Lord, Teyrn Cousland, of Highever in Ferelden." Fergus turned, smiling at the lord, whose foppish costume marked him as being of Orlesian descent, if not extraction. As de Launcet bent in an overly courtly bow, Fergus could see Jennie talking to an elven servant who, despite the blackened hair and powdered skin, was recognizable to him as Zevran. Judging from Leliana's stiffened posture next to him, she had recognized Zev as well, and was none too happy about it. Fergus couldn't blame her—if she hadn't procured an invitation for Zev, there was probably a reason for it. It had been presumptuous of the elf to show up without consulting her, even if he had done so in the guise of a servant.

They made small talk with de Launcet for a moment, then strolled on through the ballroom. Leliana's small hand was tucked in the crook of Fergus's elbow, and Varric walked at his other side, telling inventive stories about the people they passed. Fergus could tell most of them were made up, but they were entertaining, for all that. Every once in a while Leliana would subtly indicate that she'd like to speak to Fergus alone, but the dwarf must have been deaf to her hints, because he simply kept talking.

Eventually they wound up in the corner where Hawke was stuck, button-holed by a very drunk woman Varric identified as Dulci de Launcet, wife of the man Fergus had met earlier. "Poor Hawke," Varric murmured, shaking his head at her glazed eyes and the controlled panic in her face. As they joined the two women, Varric said, "Cousland, Hawke here hasn't had a chance to dance yet tonight. I would do the honors, but I never dance in Orlais."

Dance? Again? After the misery of the dance with Leliana, who was an accomplished dancer and skilled at putting a man at ease, Fergus could only imagine how uncomfortable it would be to dance with Hawke, who he was sure would be an awkward dancer and an even more uncomfortable conversationalist. He saw her face crumple in abashed negation, her mouth open to say no, and he realized that she would take his refusal as a reflection on her. He was surprised to hear himself say, "What an excellent idea. It would be my pleasure." Fergus held a hand out to Hawke, who took it with ice-cold fingers and hesitantly let him lead her onto the dance floor.

"I take it you don't dance very frequently," he said, moving her arm to the proper starting position.

She shook her head, her eyes on the feet of the dancers around them. "I avoid it whenever possible."

"Well, it's been some time since I danced regularly, but I think I can still lead. Just relax." She remained tense, staring at her feet. "Look up, Jennie. Look at me, let your feet move how they want to. When you're not thinking about it, you'll get it. I promise." He smiled at her, hating to see someone as aggressively competent as she was this flummoxed by a simple dance.

Jennie looked up as bidden, but he could feel her shiver.

"How is it that you never learned to dance?" he asked, partly to distract her, but also because he was genuinely curious as to how an Amell had grown up with so little knowledge of the social graces.

She snorted inelegantly. "Has Your Grace never been to Lothering?"

He vaguely remembered passing through a small, squalid town on the way to Ostagar. What he remembered more vividly was the tainted aftermath; Lothering had become something of a symbol of the Blight. Everyone who was anyone had been to see it, to learn firsthand what a Blight could do. "Your family is from Lothering? What of Kirkwall?"

"My mother was born and raised in Kirkwall. When she met my father, he was an—er, he was unsuitable, let's put it that way."

Her meaning was clear, at least to Fergus. Her father had been an apostate. "That had to be a difficult life." He could imagine it, always on the run, hiding from the ignorant and the overly pious and those who were too officious in enforcing the laws.

"It was." Her blue eyes were troubled, and she stumbled slightly. Fergus's arms tightened to hold her up. "You're doing fine," he said encouragingly. "When did you leave Lothering?"

"About two steps ahead of the darkspawn."

Too late, he remembered what she had said to Leliana, about her brother being killed by an ogre. "I'm sorry, I should have remembered."

Jennie shook her head. "You had your own troubles. There's no reason for you to remember mine."

"We all suffered in the Blight; and after, as well. It can't have been easy for any of you to escape Lothering. It says a great deal about you that you managed to do so."

"You can say that again." Something humorous and a bit sardonic lit Jennie's face, and Fergus wondered what was behind the expression.

"I take it there's a story there. Shall I ask Varric?"

"I wouldn't take his version as the exact truth."

"I'm beginning to get that impression, yes. What would his version entail?"

"I think a giant turtle that carried us across the ocean, but I'm pretty sure it's still a work in progress." Jennie laughed, the sound bringing an answering smile to Fergus's face. 

"What about your version? Would it be similar? Or is that, too, a work in progress?"

The smile faded, but Jennie's eyes were still lit with humor. "Mine has to do with a dragon instead of a giant turtle; but the actual passage to Kirkwall was on a very standard ship."

"A dragon? And that's supposed to be more likely than a giant turtle?"

"I suppose it's all in which one you're more likely to believe. Opinion in Kirkwall seems about split between those two and the idea that I'm a curse set down on the whole city." She shrugged. "Depends on whether they think I've come to save Kirkwall from itself or foment some kind of rebellion."

"And what do you believe?"

Jennie sighed. "I came to Kirkwall to make a better life for my family, and then I lost them all. But I've made a new family, and they all need better lives, too. So my task is far from completed."

"You really think Isabela needs mothering?"

Her blue eyes met his, direct and honest. "They all need mothering, Fergus. Who doesn't?"

He thought of his own mother, and couldn't deny the wisdom of her words. With some surprise, he realized that the music had ended, and they were still standing in the middle of the dance floor. "I'm sorry," he said, dropping his arms and stepping back. "I apparently missed the end of the song. So much for my skills!"

"I … didn't notice, either. Thank you, Fergus."

"Anytime." He bowed deeply to her, watching as she walked off the dance floor and rejoined Varric. Only then did it occur to Fergus that he hadn't given Oriana a single thought during their dance. Had Jennie been another type of woman, he might have felt guilty over the realization. As it was, he felt a pleased peace spreading through him. Perhaps the wounds carved so deeply on his heart were on the path to healing, after all.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Long before the ball ended—because Leliana assured them it would continue until dawn—Jennie, Varric, and Fergus left. They had a lot of map-searching to do the next day, and both Jennie and Fergus were anxious to finish up their work in Val Royeaux and be on their way. Leliana had promised to meet them in the Chantry's great library the following morning.

Jennie was in a good mood as they walked back to the hotel. It was quiet at night in Val Royeaux, much quieter than a similar night in Kirkwall would have been, and she'd had a surprisingly good time at the ball. She wondered if Zev had left as well, or if he had stayed behind to keep an eye on Leliana. It was clear that the elf was suspicious of his former traveling companion, and anxious to keep her from knowing exactly what their mission was.

She was chuckling at one of Varric's jokes as they came back into their inn. The night manager looked up when they walked past him. "Ah, Messere Hawke. There is someone here to see you. She is waiting in the—"

"Hello, sister."

Jennie turned at the familiar voice, her eyes taking in the slender figure in the silver and blue tabard of the Grey Wardens. "Bethany?"


	9. Little Sister

"Bethany!" Jennie looked her sister over with delight. Being a Grey Warden clearly suited her—she was sleek and trim, much more muscular than Jennie remembered. Her black hair was cropped close in the same way Jennie's was, but on Bethany it looked dangerous and confidently elegant. Her eyes were different than Jennie remembered, less gentle and open, but she supposed being a Grey Warden could do that to a person. "What a surprise! What are you doing in Val Royeaux?" Jennie asked after they had exchanged a brief hug.

"I could ask you the same question. I was quite surprised when one of my men told me the Champion of Kirkwall had come to Orlais, and in such interesting company, as well." Bethany's gaze moved over Jennie's shoulder to take in Fergus. Her eyes softened slightly when she looked at Varric. "Hello, Varric."

"Sunshine. You look well."

The nickname no longer seemed to suit her sister, Jennie thought. Bethany's reserved demeanor was more like midnight than daylight.

Belatedly, Jennie remembered her manners. "Fergus, this is my sister, Bethany. Bethany, this is Fergus Cousland."

"We've met. Although I didn't realize at the time that she was your sister." Fergus nodded cordially to Bethany.

"You have?" Jennie's eyes widened as she looked from one to the other.

"Oh, I must have forgotten to write you, sister. While you've been taking Kirkwall by storm, I was named as second in command to the Warden Commander of Ferelden." Bethany's chin lifted proudly. "I'm only sorry Mother couldn't have lived long enough to know that I finally found a place where my abilities are respected as they ought to be."

A disloyal voice in the back of Jennie's head wondered acidly where this pride had been when Bethany had so dramatically declared that death would be preferable to becoming a Warden, or when she had written Jennie that cold, stilted letter that forgave her older sister for saving her life by getting her to the Wardens. "Congratulations," Jennie said, leaving her thoughts unvoiced.

"Some time you'll have to tell me about what happened to Mother and how she managed to go off with a deranged blood mage without anyone knowing about it," Bethany remarked. Her voice was soft, but Jennie heard the implied blame loud and clear.

She bit back the impulse to defend herself. Probably, if Bethany had been there, it wouldn't have happened. Mother and Bethany would have talked about Mother's suitor the way they had always talked about everything and everyone, including Jennie, and Bethany would almost certainly have known when Mother went off with him. But Jennie had been too busy to keep up with her mother's life, and vice versa. "If you're assigned to the Fereldan Wardens, what brings you here?" she asked, to change the subject.

"You do. Or, rather, your traveling companions do."

"Oh, Sunshine, you missed us. That's sweet."

Bethany didn't crack a smile at Varric's comment, looking straight at her sister. "You are traveling with two Grey Wardens, Jennie, both of whom are absent from the order without permission. We can't allow that kind of thing to continue."

"Let's take this somewhere more private, shall we?" Fergus put in. He glanced significantly at the front desk clerk, who was listening as hard as he could without being obvious about it.

"Absolutely. Bethany, let's go up to my room and you can explain whatever it is that you're after," Jennie said.

Bethany nodded, looking at Fergus and Varric. "Will you both excuse us, please? I'd like to talk to my sister alone, if you don't mind."

"I'm not sure about that," Fergus objected. "If she wants to talk about our companions …"

Jennie turned toward him. "I'll fill you in on everything relevant in the morning, Fergus. Please?"

He hesitated a moment, his eyes on Jennie. Then something softened in his face, and she wondered if he was thinking about his brother. "Of course. I'll see you in the morning. Bethany." He nodded to her again, and she returned the gesture politely.

"Nice to see you again," Varric said, before following Fergus up the stairs.

"You, too, Varric." But the tone was absent, and before he was gone Bethany was focused on Jennie again.

"Being a Warden seems to agree with you," Jennie remarked as they went up the stairs to her room.

"Did I have any other choice?"

"Well, I suppose you could have embraced bitterness, but that would hardly be sunshiny of you," Jennie snapped, closing the door behind them.

"What did you expect, when you sent me off into exile? Was it nice, having Mother all to yourself?"

Jennie sighed. So they were right back where they'd left off, were they? If Bethany expected her to apologize, the way she would have once upon a time, she could forget it. "Of course not, and you know it. She never stopped blaming me for Carver's death and your situation, and if she could have come up with a way to blame me for Father getting sick, she would have. Now, if we're done with the sappy reunion portion of this discussion, can we move on to whatever it is that you want?" She was saddened that spending time with her sister degenerated so quickly into spewing their stored bitterness at each other.

"Tell me about Mother, all the things you didn't put in your letter," Bethany said quietly. She walked to the window, staring out at the darkened city.

"You don't want to know." Jennie tried to banish the memory of the stitched-together walking corpse her mother had become at the end. "You should be glad you didn't have to see it."

"How is Anders?"

"About the same. Justice is wearing him down, slowly but surely—I don't think he gets a lot of sleep anymore. He spends all his nights writing this manifesto of the wrongs against mages. Or he did. I haven't seen the manifesto since we left Kirkwall. Oghren seems to be good for him."

"If he can manage to convince the world that mages deserve to be allowed the full use of their power, I'm all for this manifesto." Bethany's voice was hard. She turned around, giving Jennie an exasperated look. "But why on earth have you taken him out of Kirkwall? You can't control him."

"He's under control. Besides, that's why I brought Varric. He understands Anders."

"I have to admit, I never thought I'd see Varric Tethras this far from the Hanged Man." Bethany frowned, looking Jennie up and down. "You've changed a bit; I don't think I'd ever have seen you in a dress like that before I left."

"It was all Isabela could find when we were invited to the ball."

"And you're … assisting the Teyrn?"

"Yes. He wanted to do some exploring, and he hired me to help him."

"Of course he did. Because you're the first person I'd think of if I wanted to mount an exploration into the wilderness. So where are you going?"

"We're not sure," Jennie said automatically, following the agreement she had made with Fergus not to reveal their destination, and ignoring Bethany's sarcasm. She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking in the powerful, confident figure her sister made in that Grey Warden armor. This was not the sweet little girl whose first tentative spells their father had been so proud of; this was a mage who was sure of her skills and strength. There was a lot of Malcolm Hawke in the Bethany standing before her, and a surprising amount of Carver, as well. Apparently they hadn't been twins to no purpose. And her expression as she'd looked Jennie over was pure Leandra Amell—superior and all-knowing. Yes, Jennie decided, keeping Bethany in the dark about their destination was a wise move. Better to tell her the story later than offer confidences now that might not be well used. "We've been considering going north, to the Anderfels," she added.

"Hm. Weisshaupt is in the Anderfels," Bethany said, almost to herself. "Is that where the Hero of Ferelden is, sister?"

"N—I don't know." Jennie couldn't help the negation—she hadn't expected that question.

"Which is it? No, or you don't know?" Bethany folded her arms, but there was a little smirk playing around the corners of her mouth that told Jennie her sister was well aware of which answer was the right one. "He left the Order, you know. He was Commander of the Grey, and he just walked away from his position. That's frowned on, especially when you're as familiar with our … history as Cousland was."

"I'm surprised you don't consider him a personal hero, Bethany. Don't you wish you could just walk away and leave it?"

"Not anymore. Not now that I understand what an important role the Wardens play. The rest of you simply don't understand how vital we are to the survival of all of Thedas," Bethany said, her eyes shining with a light that rather disturbed Jennie. "We need Cousland back, sister."

"I can't help you. And neither can Fergus, so leave him alone!"

"Do I detect one of your little crushes forming?"

"No!" Jennie's face flushed, thinking of Sebastian, and of various other men she had watched with hidden longing but never had the courage to approach. She remembered a junior Grey Warden she had met at Ostagar, a shy but funny man she had thought might be similar to herself. No doubt he had died with the other Wardens on the battlefield, she thought, shuddering as a vivid memory of that night passed over her. With difficulty, she dragged her thoughts back to the present. "A man like Fergus Cousland would never look twice at someone like me, and I'd be all wrong for him even if he did. But I know what it's like to have lost your whole family except for a sibling you can't talk to, and for him it's even worse because he lost his wife and child, as well. He's suffered enough, and I want you to stay away from him."

"Very well, sister. If you insist. But if you find the Hero of Ferelden, remember, he belongs to us."

Jennie faked a yawn, standing up and walking to the door. "It's been a long day, Bethany. Can we continue this in the morning?"

"Of course." Bethany smiled. "We have a compound here in the city. Please bring Anders and Oghren there in the morning so that we can discuss the terms of their leave of absence."

"That's very generous of you, Bethany. We'll see you then." They embraced briefly and Jennie closed the door behind her sister, wearily undressing and getting into bed. She wasn't looking forward to more verbal fencing tomorrow. Jennie doubted that whatever Bethany wanted with her companions would be pleasant.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anders and Oghren were understandably reluctant to accompany Jennie to the Grey Warden compound, but she convinced them that Bethany only wanted to talk to them.

"Huh. You've never been a Warden, if you think it's all just talk," Oghren said, but he agreed to go, as long as no one tried to take his weapon away. He even bathed first, which was a relief to everyone.

On arriving they were led to a conference room where Jennie and two other Wardens awaited them. Jennie and Isabela, who had insisted on coming along while the others went to meet Leliana in the map rooms, followed Anders and Oghren inside the conference room.

Bethany cleared her throat when she saw her sister. "Jennie, this meeting is for Grey Wardens. You and Isabela will have to leave." She nodded to Isabela, but her face was set and hard. She looked just like Mother, Jennie thought. Acted like her, too.

"I'm sorry, but these men are under my protection. They're my responsibility. I'm not leaving."

A large red-headed man sitting next to Bethany gave a growl Jennie could hear across the room. "If you hear any Grey Warden secrets, you'll have to become one."

"A secret?" Isabela asked, earning a guffaw from Oghren and an annoyed glance from Jennie.

"A Warden," the red-head snapped.

Jennie wondered if she imagined the dismay that crossed Bethany's face. "I believe we can conduct this meeting without that necessity arising," Bethany said hastily. "Wardens Anders and Oghren, come forth."

The mage and the dwarf glanced at each other and then moved to stand in front of the table.

"Warden Anders," Bethany said crisply. "You abandoned the Wardens in order to become an abomination, which, as you know, is not countenanced by the Grey Warden order."

Isabela gave a strangled chortle, earning an icy glare from all three Grey Wardens at the table.

Bethany looked back at Anders. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't simply have you killed."

"Bethany, what are you saying?" Anders asked incredulously. "We were friends!"

"Were. Now I have a job to do." Bethany's eyes locked with Anders's, and Jennie wondered what messages were passing between them. "I'm waiting, Anders," Bethany said, but her voice had softened.

"You want me to beg you not to kill me? You're out of your mind."

"No, you are, if you think I can just let you go."

"I've been living in Kirkwall all these years, and you knew it! And I've done just fine without your supervision, or that of any of the Wardens," Anders snapped, glancing down the table at the assembled Wardens. The big red-head bristled, half-rising from his chair, but at a gesture from Bethany he sat back down again.

"It is one thing, Anders, for you to be living in Kirkwall where we can keep an eye on you—yes, we've been keeping an eye on you," Bethany said, when Anders opened his mouth, looking outraged. "But we're not having you traipsing across Thedas without some oversight."

The insult wasn't lost on Jennie, although she wondered what Fergus might have said if he were here.

"I take it your situation is unchanged," Bethany continued. "Justice, are you still in there?"

"He doesn't come when called, you know. He's not a tame spirit."

"That," Bethany said icily, "is precisely what concerns us."

"What are you going to do, haul me back to Amaranthine? I'm sure Nate will be thrilled to have me back."

Bethany smiled for the first time, but there was no humor in it. "Hardly. I believe his exact words were 'when the Fade freezes over'."

"I could arrange that," Anders said. Jennie shivered a little, wondering if that was true.

"My point being that no, Amaranthine is not an option. Instead, I believe we require that you travel to Weisshaupt. For testing. We should have had you do so a long time ago."

"Weisshaupt!" Anders looked shocked. "But we're—"

"According to my sister, you were thinking of going north, toward the Anderfels," Bethany said innocently. She looked past Anders to Jennie. "Surely it's not too much trouble to drop a Grey Warden off at Weisshaupt fortress."

"I said we were considering it, not that we had decided," Jennie said. What was Bethany up to?

"Perhaps this could be the deciding factor."

"I'd have to consult Fergus about that. It's his mi—expedition, so the ultimate decision-making lies with him. I'm not sure how he'd feel about being the Grey Wardens' messenger service."

The two sisters stared at each other across the room until the silence was disturbed by Anders clearing his throat. "I don't care what the Teyrn wants to do. I'm not going off to Weisshaupt to be locked up and have tests run on me until my Calling."

At the mention of the word "Calling", the grouchy red-head grumbled, and even the third Grey Warden, a black-haired elf with Dalish tattoos, drew in his breath sharply.

Anders gave them a scornful glance. "Please. I could have shared that particular tidbit all over Kirkwall by now." He grinned suddenly. "Maybe I have."

"That's it!" The red-head stood up, planting his fists on the table. "I'm taking you to Weisshaupt myself."

"Sit down, Connor," Bethany snapped. Immediately, he did so. Jennie was impressed—Bethany had never been so assertive when they were growing up, preferring to get her way by playing on her delicate features and slight frame. It was a relief to see that she had dropped the Little Miss Innocent act. Jennie, for one, had never been fooled by it, but many people had been, including their mother. "Anders, do you refuse to go?" Bethany asked.

"Yes, I refuse to go. I am no longer a Grey Warden!"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Tell that to the King of Ferelden."

"You wouldn't even be a Warden if it hadn't been for Cousland. "You could be a free man today if he hadn't conscripted you," put in the elf. His voice was soft and soothing to the ear, like a rushing brook, and Anders visibly relaxed.

"That's true."

"Saved yer arse from the bloody Templars," Oghren said. "That Rylock woulda hauled you off and chained you up till yer bits fell off, otherwise."

"Warden Oghren," Bethany said, as if she had just remembered he was there. "You are absent without leave from Amaranthine. Not that we don't appreciate the quiet and the lack of vomit." She shuddered slightly as she looked him over.

It didn't surprise Jennie in the least that her sister couldn't stand the filthy, foul-mouthed dwarf. Bethany had always been too fastidious for their position in life. Of course, being a Grey Warden didn't strike Jennie as any too clean a profession, but it appeared Bethany had already managed to rise high enough to foist the dirty work onto someone else.

"Aye, missy, had somethin' to do. Be back when I'm done." He cleared his throat loudly and then said, in a softer voice, "Don't s'pose you've seen Felsi and the little 'un, have ya?"

"I have. Felsi that she asked me to deliver this letter to you. She left just before we did." Bethany held out the letter. From the pitying look on her sister's face, Jennie expected the letter contained bad news.

"Left? Where'd she go?"

"I believe she mentioned Orzammar. But I can't be sure."

When Oghren turned around, clutching the letter in one meaty hand, he looked as though he'd taken a hammer between the eyes.

Anders put a hand on Oghren's shoulder. The dwarf was staring at the sealed letter as though he could see what it contained if he only looked hard enough. "What exactly do you want from us?" the mage asked, looking up at Bethany.

Jennie had had enough of this. She pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning on, stalking forward. "It doesn't matter what she wants. We're leaving."

"You can't. As Grey Wardens, we have authority over this man. We can make a lot of trouble for you—" Bethany began, but she snapped her mouth closed when Jennie began to laugh.

"Trouble? Where? In Kirkwall? All I have to do is tell Meredith that you and your Grey Wardens refused to help when the city was under siege by the Qunari and she'll see to it that the Grey Wardens are denied Kirkwall's hospitality for as long as she's in charge."

"Meredith," Bethany spat. "That maniac."

"Call her what you like, she's still firmly in control of Kirkwall." Privately, Jennie wasn't sure how bad Meredith really was. Rumors were rife, but she had yet to hear of anything concrete—or proveable—the Knight Commander had actually done.

"I can keep you from leaving Val Royeaux."

Jennie pulled herself up to her full height, looking down at Bethany, who was shorter by a good couple of inches. "May I remind you, sister, that while you are a lieutenant commander in the Grey Wardens, I am the Champion of Kirkwall, and I travel in the company of the Teyrn of Highever. Do you really want to cause an international incident on behalf of the Grey Wardens over the temporary absence of a pair of …" She almost said 'screw-ups', but decided to be kind, "junior members of the order?" She looked the red-head and at the Dalish.

Bethany stood as if frozen, with her mouth wide open. Clearly she had expected to be able to roll right over her sister; Jennie had always bent over backwards for Bethany's needs. But she was a different person now. Jennie didn't trust Bethany, or the Grey Wardens, to be looking out for Anders or Oghren's best interests, so it was up to her to do so.

"Come on, Anders. Oghren. Let's go."

"Jennie!" Bethany's voice was strident, almost a screech, and Jennie looked back over her shoulder at her sister.

"It was nice to see you, Bethany. If you're ever in Kirkwall, look me up. We'll have dinner." She strode out of the room with the others following her.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Isabela pressed her ear against the door, but the room was silent. Good; he was alone. She'd suspected as much—the others were still looking at maps, as far as she could tell, and Jennie was with Anders, to calm the mage down after this morning's confrontation with the Grey Wardens. Isabela tried the door, finding it locked, but that was only a momentary obstacle.

Oghren looked up when she came in, his eyes red. He still held the letter in his hand. "That was locked."

"I know. I thought you might want some company." Isabela crossed the room slowly, well aware that the dwarf could tear her apart with his bare hands if he wanted to.

He shook his head. "Better off alone. 'Swhat I do best." Raising the letter, he shook it at her. "Felsi says I can't come back. She 'n' the little nugling're goin' back to Orzammar, the one place in Thedas I can't follow 'em."

"Maybe you could convince her she has you all wrong."

Oghren snorted. "She doesn't. We all know that." His mouth opened and he shook with silent sobs. "Never no good to her; shouldn't've ever …" The words trailed off.

Isabela knelt in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders. Oghren's thick arms went around her and he buried his face in her generous chest, letting the anguish take him. Isabela rocked him gently, patting him on the back and murmuring comforting nonsense words in Rivaini, the way she dimly recalled her father doing for her when she was small and had hurt herself. Her mother would never have been caught dead doing something as indulgent as comforting a little girl's hurts.

At last, Oghren's tears slowed, and he removed his bearded face from Isabela's bosom. She pulled a handkerchief out of her garter, wiping herself off before offering it to him. Oghren looked at the lace-edged fabric and snorted. He pulled a large, hefty handkerchief out of his back pocket, wiping off his face before blowing heartily. He kept his head down, looking up at her almost shyly. "Thanks. I … uh … yeah."

"Any time." Isabela sank back on her heels. "You going to be all right now?"

"Sure." He straightened, as if he was about to pull out some patented Oghren bluster, but deflated before he could start. "Just …"

Isabela leaned forward, taking his face in her hands, and kissed him. Oghren relaxed into the embrace for a moment, but then pulled back, his strong hands holding her away from him.

"Hey, what're you doin'? This yer idea of pity? 'Cause Oghren don't take charity." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Or do you have some kind of a bet goin'?"

Reasoning that since Varric already knew it was only a matter of time before everyone did, Isabela nodded. "But I thought you looked like you could use some company, too. See? Win-win. I win the bet, you win a night with me. Men have died for the privilege, you know."

Oghren stared at her for a moment. Then his mouth opened wide in a grin and he slapped his knee. "By the Stone, yer on, little missy. Who's the bet with? Poncy the elf?"

"Yes, but I won't tell him you know about it if you don't."

"Sure, and I get to make 'im think he's gettin' somewhere with me. Oughta be a kick in the bits, stringin' 'im along."

Isabela nodded. "So how about it, my friend? I think I'm just what the healer ordered after the day you had."

"Aye, I think so, too." One big hand cupped the back of her neck and pulled her toward him for a kiss. He was strong, and surprisingly comfortable with it. And he knew what he was doing, his tongue sweeping Isabela's mouth. She moved closer, pressing herself against his chest and letting him tilt her head back with the force of his kiss. Meanwhile, she slipped her unlaced tunic down over her shoulders, letting her large breasts hang free.

Oghren grunted deep in his throat, letting go of her mouth and leaning forward to take a nipple in his mouth, his warm tongue circling it until it stood out. Isabela shivered, feeling the response rising from deep inside her body. Her eyes closed and her head fell back. Oghren's hands moved down her back and cupped her rear, hauling her even more firmly against him. His beard scratched roughly at her breasts, the sensation warming her all through. Isabela clutched at Oghren's shoulders, pushing his shirt aside. She licked his neck and fastened her teeth on his earlobe, tugging at it.

He shifted backward, pulling her on top of him. Isabela let her tunic slide down her body and over her hips before straddling his lap, rubbing herself against the bulge in his trousers. Oghren lay back, groaning, arching his back to press up against her.

Isabela shifted her hips backward, sliding off his lap and opening his trousers with deft fingers. She took his length in her hand, stroking it while Oghren gasped and grunted. Wrapping her lips around the tip of his erection, she circled the head with her tongue and then took him deep into her mouth, suckling hungrily. Oghren's hands found her head, helping her set a rhythm. She could hear the increased pace of his breathing, and braced herself, but he pushed her head back, sitting up.

He was very strong. Before she knew it, he had lifted her, turning her onto her back on the bed. He pulled her smallclothes down with his teeth, burying his face between her legs, that broad tongue sweeping forcefully over all the right places. Isabela bit her lip, moaning, as he thrust inside her with his tongue. Her legs drew up of their own volition, giving him greater access.

"Ah!" she gasped sharply as he withdrew his tongue and switched to drawing tiny little circles. Isabela felt a buzzing in her hands and feet as all her blood rushed to her core. "Oghren!"

"Aye." He lifted her again, switching their places one more time so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed and she was straddling him. Isabela teasingly drew herself along the tip of his erection, enjoying his groans of frustration. And then Oghren's big hands settled on her hips and pulled her down onto him, the sudden connection causing them both to cry out.

They were in a frenzy now, Isabela's hips bucking wildly atop him while his hands kept her anchored to him.

The tension was gathering inside her, all of her focus centered between her legs as the angle shifted just right.

His grunts of pleasure were speeding up, and she moved more purposefully, timing it with expert precision so that she felt the release just as he thrust up inside her with a great cry.

For a moment they stayed joined, panting, as the aftershocks moved through their systems, and then Isabela climbed off his lap. "Feel better now?"

"Oh, yeah." He sleepily rolled to his side. "Any time you want another go …"

"Sorry, my friend. I don't do repeats."

"Uh-huh. Smart of ya." His eyes were drooping, and in a moment he was asleep, his breathing deep and harsh. Isabela let herself out of his room, being sure to lock the door behind her.


	10. Go Your Own Way

Walking to the great library where the maps were kept, Fergus felt torn. While he needed to see the maps for himself, and Leliana would be more comfortable if he were present while the others were looking through the maps, he couldn't help but worry about the Grey Wardens and what they wanted with Anders and Oghren. Would Jennie and Isabela be able to handle the Grey Wardens on their own? At least the lead Warden was Jennie's sister, although he could tell that their family relationship wasn't quite as smooth as it might have been. It made him wonder what it would be like when he finally saw Wulfric again. Would their differences or their family bonds come to the fore? Fergus supposed that would depend on the nature of the trouble Wulfric faced.

Ahead of him, Zevran and Varric were walking close together, speaking in low voices. Fergus hastened his steps to get closer, wondering what they were talking about with such absorption. Fenris brought up the rear more slowly.

"You recognize the need to keep her distracted, then?" Zev was saying.

"Strawberries seems a little too curious about our plans," Varric agreed. "But then, a bard in the hand …"

"Is more devious than two in the bush?" Both men chuckled.

Fergus was startled. Leliana was a bard? He thought of her soft, soothing voice, of her sparkling conversation, of the attentiveness she had displayed toward him, and he could have kicked himself for being such an easy mark, not to mention Zev for not having told him so earlier. So what did she want, then? Was she hoping Fergus would give her some hint of Wulfric's whereabouts, or was she using her talents on him merely as a reflex?

"How long will you need with each map, in order to commit its contents to memory?"

"Only a few minutes. Then I should be able to reproduce each map in its entirety."

"An impressive skill, my dear little friend. May I ask how you developed such a thing?"

"Memorizing Merchants' Guild bar tabs." Varric chuckled. "Some of those things are as long as my—they're long."

"Indeed." A note of interest had crept into the elf's voice. "Some day perhaps you will demonstrate some of your … capabilities for me, yes?"

"Dream on, Flash."

They arrived at the great library of the Chantry, an imposing building guarded by several heavily armored templars. Two of them crossed their massive blades in front of the door as Fergus approached. "Business?"

"Teyrn Fergus Cousland. I have an appointment with Sister Leliana to view the maps."

The two bucketed heads swiveled as the men looked at each other through the slits in their visors. After a moment, they nodded, stepping back and returning their swords to their sheaths. "Enter."

Fergus did so, feeling somewhat daunted in spite of himself by the display. He was disgusted at his own reaction, knowing that the encounter had been staged to elicit that very response.

"Large men in armor are only intimidating if they know how to use their weapons," Fenris remarked, not quietly, as he entered behind Fergus.

"Please don't taunt the templars," Fergus said, pitching his voice low. "You wouldn't want them to get the idea that all that lyrium must make you a mage."

Fenris looked at him, startled, then scowled. "Let them try."

"Let's not and say we didn't," Varric put in. "We're here to look at maps, not to make a point that won't do anyone any good."

Fergus led the way down the hall, following the signs in intricately scrolled Orlesian that led toward the map rooms. Leliana was waiting by the door. She came forward as soon as she saw him, her hands out and a wide smile on her face. Yesterday, he might have found her fulsome and affectionate greeting charming, but he couldn't help wondering again what it was that she wanted from him. He was used to people trying to ingratiate themselves with him—it was a way of life if you were a Cousland—but this was something more … focused.

"I am so glad you were able to make it." She nodded to Zev, and smiled at Varric, and then her gaze moved to Fenris, whom she hadn't met yet. "Good morning, messere elf. I am Leliana."

"I am Fenris," he said, looking startled and a bit discomfited by the warmth of her greeting.

"It is exciting to meet such exotic people here in the heart of Val Royeaux, don't you think?"

"Um … yes?"

It was all Fergus could to not to laugh at the clear panic in the elf's eyes as Leliana ushered him into the map room, chattering vivaciously. Zev and Varric were biting their lips to stifle their own amusement.

The map room was large and cavernous. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floors. They were nearly alone in the large room, other than two templars at a far table arguing quietly over a book of maps and a solitary dwarf in a corner looking over a map of the Deep Roads.

Leliana turned to them. "Gentlemen, the maps are at your disposal today. As you can see, we have many. All you need to do is tell me which areas of Thedas you are interested in, and I will fetch the maps for you."

"Perhaps we would prefer to do it ourselves. I am not accustomed to being waited on," Fenris said.

Her smile not faltering for a moment, Leliana said, "I am afraid that is one of the conditions. You see, the librarians are very concerned about the maintenance of their maps, and so they want to be certain the maps are touched only by those they trust."

Fergus glanced at the solitary dwarf, who was leaning over the map spread out on his table with his fists planted firmly in the middle of it. Somehow he doubted that Leliana's presence as their watchdog had anything to do with the librarians' concern for their maps.

"That should not be a problem," Zev said breezily. "As long as it does not tire you out, lifting down all those heavy books of maps. I believe we will need to look at many, if we are to determine a course." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Nor did the one Leliana returned. "Zevran, you of all people should know that I have remarkable stamina."

"So you do."

Fergus wasn't entirely sure what was being communicated between them, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with his brother. Further than that he had no desire to speculate; whatever Wulfric had gotten up to in his off hours during the Blight, what few of them he'd had, was between Wulfric and his companions, and Fergus was more than content to let it stay there. He'd seen enough of Wulfric's exploits when they were both a lot younger.

"Shall we get started?" he said. "Leliana, the northern territories, please. Maybe a nice road map of the Anderfels?"

As he'd half-expected would be the case, Fenris and Varric had disappeared into the stacks somewhere, while Zevran busied himself setting out vellum and pens, so Fergus moved to Leliana's side, giving her his most charming smile. "I've never been to the Anderfels; apparently it's quite desolate up there. Do you think it's similar to the Frostbacks?"

"I know many strange and fascinating stories about the Anderfels. It is a home to magic, some say, deep magic."

"Sounds exciting. Here, let me help you with that." Leliana was standing on her tiptoes reaching for a heavy book. Fergus lifted it down for her. "Any others up here that might be useful?"

"I do not know, since you will not tell me where you are going. Are you afraid I might try to follow you?" Her blue eyes were sparkling as she smiled up at him.

"Maybe I just don't know where I want to go. Do you know what it's like to feel purposeless, Leliana?"

For a moment, her blue eyes looked troubled, and she bit her lip. But then the sparkle returned, and she smiled gently. "Not in a long time, no, Fergus. Your brother helped me to see my purpose; I hope someone can help you find yours in the same way." She had moved almost imperceptibly closer to him, and her mouth pouted softly, shaped for a kiss. Fergus couldn't deny that the temptation was there, but with it was a sense of disquiet, of wrongness. He steeled himself not to back away. Instead, he looked up into the shelves, lifting down a book at random.

"The Uncharted Territories south of the Korcari Wilds?" Leliana inquired, peering around his arm to look at the book with him. "Those are largely unknown. Even the maps are little more than vague collections of landmarks. Surely you do not wish to travel there—you could lose yourself entirely."

"Sometimes that's what I want to do. Or perhaps I just want a little adventure to offset the tedium that is the business of Teyrnship." Fergus smiled. "It's hard to say. Come, let's take these back to the table and look them over."

He led her back through the stacks, hoping Fenris and Varric had had enough time to find what they needed, and that they hadn't drawn the attention of the two templars while they were at it. From Zev's relaxed attitude, it seemed that the others had been successful—they were seated farther down the table, playing an intense but friendly game of Wicked Grace.

Leliana glanced at the three curiously, putting the book down on the table. While Fenris was distracted by Leliana's appearance, Varric took the opportunity to switch two cards, smugly announcing, "Got you, elf!"

Fenris looked back at the cards. Carelessly he drew a card from inside his leather gauntlet, dropping it on top of the pile. "Not this time, dwarf." There was a suggestion of a smirk on his usually impassive face as he got up, coming down the table to look over the book of maps. Varric was left sputtering, staring down at the cards.

"My own trick," he said in mock indignation. "Elf, I've taught you entirely too well."

"That you have." Fenris had the book open to a map of Tevinter, and was frowning at it. "This does not look quite right."

"I assure you, our maps are quite up to date," Leliana said hastily.

Fergus blew the dust off the book he held in his hand, keeping his own counsel at that. It seemed to him that an entity as ponderous as the Chantry might have trouble keeping current; after all, progress didn't exactly favor established institutions. The opposite, generally. Under Alistair, Ferelden was taking steps to reduce the Chantry's influence, a move that no doubt hadn't gone unnoticed, although the Divine had yet to comment officially on the policy changes.

"No, see here? North of Asariel and south of Minrathous, there is a man-made river. I don't see it on this map."

"Really?" Leliana looked more closely where his finger was pointing.

Fenris glanced at her and then away. "My earliest memory is of staring at a map of Tevinter over my master's shoulder."

"There are many maps; perhaps this one is merely of an older date."

"Aren't you supposed to be showing us the most current maps?" Fergus asked. "We can hardly navigate on maps that aren't accurate."

For the first time in his acquaintance with her, Leliana looked flustered. "I am sorry, I must have gone to the wrong section."

"Shall we try again?" Fergus said. He wondered whose idea it had been for Leliana to lead them to the wrong maps, and why. To whose benefit would it be to have him lost in the Anderfels? He supposed that to anyone who gave him credit for being the brains behind Alistair's throne—and there were a few who did—getting him out of the way for an extended period of time would be a plus. The Chantry might be more interested in keeping Hawke occupied, though, since she was known to be a stabilizing force in Kirkwall, counteracting some of the rumored excesses of the Knight-Commander.

He followed Leliana into the stacks. In time they came back with another set of books, and the five of them spent enough time poring over maps of the Anderfels to satisfy Leliana that they were, indeed, serious about going in that direction.

In the late afternoon, Leliana walked them to the front entrance of the library. Fergus turned to her, smiling. "Thank you for taking so much time to help us. I'm sure you had better things to do than go looking through dusty old maps today."

"Why, of course not! It was my pleasure to be of assistance to you." Her lips curved softly into a smile. "I wish you a safe journey, Fergus, and I hope you find what you are looking for." She reached up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you. So do I." Yesterday, he would have been charmed by her; today, he merely hoped that he hadn't played an unwitting hand in whatever game she was playing.

Zevran appeared at his shoulder. "Leliana, always a joy to be in your presence."

"You will take good care of our Teyrn here, will you not?"

"I always do." The two former companions gave stare for stare, before Zev nodded abruptly and turned away. Leliana said her good-byes to Fenris and Varric, asking the dwarf to be sure and write down the story of his adventures on the road.

"Of course, it's not my adventures she wants to read about," Varric remarked as they returned to their hotel. "You have a groupie, Cousland."

Fergus shook his head. "She was my brother's girlfriend; if Wulfric didn't stay with her, there had to be a reason, or so I would think."

Zev cast a glance in his direction. "Oghren would tell you it had to do with a half-naked witch whose charms were always on display. The fair Leliana would most likely agree with him."

"But you don't?"

"Before your brother … left, did you have the pleasure of meeting Morrigan?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Ah. Then you will have to trust me when I tell you Morrigan is the opposite of Leliana in every way possible. Except insofar as they are both incredibly beautiful women. But one only knows how to be herself, and the other only knows how to be everything but."

The elf didn't have to elaborate for Fergus to know which Wulfric had chosen.

"Interesting that she brought us out-of-date maps," Varric said quietly.

"Lucky that Fenris knows the topography of Tevinter so well." Fergus said. He glanced over at Fenris, whose mouth had turned up at one corner.

"I certainly know it better than she does," the elf said. "There is no man-made river south of Minrathous, and your bard is slipping in her eagerness to prove her worth to the Chantry."

Fergus stared at the elf, as did Zev. Varric chuckled. "More to this one than a broody face that drops the ladies like flies, gentlemen."

"For the last time, dwarf," Fenris growled, "I—"

"Yes, I know, you don't brood. And you don't cheat at cards, either."

"Why do you think she was trying to prove her worth?" Fergus asked, frowning.

"It seems fairly obvious." They were at the door of the inn now, and Fenris looked around quickly to see that they were relatively unobserved before continuing. "You are going after a valuable commodity—valuable to the bard both personally and professionally. She wished to know where you were looking and to throw you off the trail so that she could either see to it that you never got there, or get there first on her own. Or both."

"My dark and mysterious friend, you are far more observant than I have given you credit for." Zev took Fenris by the arm, ignoring the way the other elf flinched when Zev's hand made contact with his bare arm. "Tell me, have you ever considered becoming an assassin?"

"I was a slave to a Tevinter magister. There is little difference."

Undaunted by Fenris's brusqueness, Zev propelled him inside the inn, talking rapidly about training schedules and translation of skill sets.

Varric watched the two elves with a grin on his face. "He's certainly enthusiastic, but that approach is never going to get him there."

"Get him where?" Fergus asked.

The dwarf looked up at him. "Oh … wherever he's intending to go. You know Flash better than I do, what do you think he wants?"

Fergus sighed. "He's incorrigible."

"It's a common trait. After you, Cousland." Varric bowed grandly, and Fergus preceded him into the inn.

"I'm going to look in on Hawke," Fergus said. "I'd like to know what happened with the Grey Wardens. Care to join me?"

Varric shook his head. "I have a lot of writing to do," he said, stretching his fingers. He winked at Fergus. "I've always thought that a map is a story that hasn't been written yet, don't you agree?"

"A very romantic way of looking at it." Fergus hoped the dwarf had memorized the maps of the Tirashan thoroughly enough that his reproductions would be accurate. Not that the original maps were likely to be that accurate themselves—the Tirashan was a largely unexplored forest at the far western edge of Thedas. Despite the seriousness of the mission, Fergus had to admit to being excited about exploring such an area. Who knew what they would find there. He wouldn't mind being known as Teyrn Cousland the Explorer. Or having a portion of the Tirashan named Orenia, for his wife and son.

He knocked on Hawke's door. "It's Fergus, Jennie. Can I come in?" He knocked again, louder, repeating himself.

"Just a minute!" He heard her moving around the room for several seconds before the door opened. "Come on in. I'm sorry, I should have expected you'd come by. I'm afraid I had turned in already."

Fergus walked past, a little surprised that she was asleep so early, and she shut the door after him. She was wearing a loose, oversized tunic and a pair of breeches that appeared to have been hastily thrown on, as one side of the tunic was rucked up, caught under the waistband of the breeches. The way the pants hugged her slender hips and the suggestion of undress about the loose drape of the tunic, combined with the tousled hair and the faint smudges under her eyes suggesting vulnerable sleepiness, made her look quite … desirable, Fergus couldn't help but notice. He felt a stirring deep inside himself, the way he had when they sparred, and he cursed his body. She wasn't even his type. He tried to call up the image of Oriana, but he couldn't quite picture her.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember what it was he'd come here for.

"You want to know about what happened with the Grey Wardens?" Jennie asked. She gestured to a chair.

Briefly, Fergus considered leaving to escape this strange awareness of her that had come over him, but he was curious about what had happened today. He sat. "Yes. I hope we still have both our companions?"

"We do, but it was a narrow escape. I had to pull rank." She smiled, but he could see pain there, too. "Bethany was not happy about that."

"You'd think she'd be used to it. She's your younger sister, isn't she?"

"She is, but … our family dynamic didn't quite work that way." The smile was gone, the pain intensified. "I suppose you were always in charge when you and your brother were together?"

"More or less. I'm six years older than he is, though, so it was relatively easy to exercise my authority. And I was going to be the Teyrn, so the training was different. Wulfric, as the younger brother, needed some of the same skills, in case something happened to me, but mostly he was allowed to grow up with a bit more freedom than I had." Fergus sighed, leaning his head against the wall. "I don't mind saying I resented that occasionally. Not that I would ever have let him see it."

"Oh, no, of course not." Jennie laughed lightly.

"So your little sister ran the roost?" He felt badly pressing her, as it was clear she didn't want to talk about her family, but he found himself very curious about her past and what had made her what she was.

"Not just her. My brother, too. I was three when the twins were born, so I don't remember what it was like without them. But …" She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at the floor, speaking almost more to herself than to him. "You see, Father was proud of his magic, and while he said a lot about the dangers of apostasy and how difficult it was to hide a child's magic, you could see how much he loved being able to share that part of himself with someone. Apostate mages can be very solitary, with no one to share their magic or talk about it with."

"I confess I'd never thought of it quite that way before. So you're saying mages may well be happier in the Circle?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far. I think most of them would consider that freedom trumps companionship."

"What about your mother? Was she as enamored with Bethany's magic?"

Jennie nodded. "At least; she loved that she had a child who had inherited Father's magic. And Bethany was sweet and biddable and … all the things I never managed to be. Meanwhile, there was Carver. Nothing biddable about him. But he was the son my mother thought would be her ticket back into Kirkwall society. She thought she'd train him up to be a proper little scion of the Amells, take him home when he'd reached the age of majority, and her parents would welcome her—and her little family of apostates—back with open arms. Unfortunately, the Blight interfered in her plans."

"And where did that leave you, the oldest child?"

"Ah, me. The problem." Jennie smiled, and he thought he could discern a carefully built shield in her demeanor. "I wasn't a boy, wasn't a mage, certainly wasn't going to be any kind of a proper scion. I wasn't even a warrior."

Fergus frowned. "What difference would that have made?"

"Oh, it was more … respectable. But I was never comfortable with a sword, much less a shield, and Mother thought the bow was unsporting." She laughed a little. "Can you imagine that? My bow was unsporting, but Bethany freezing someone with magic was considered completely fair."

"I see your point." Fergus thought of his own childhood, growing up in a family who all liked and respected each other. "It sounds very bleak for you."

"Bleak?" She frowned. "I suppose it was. But there was a great deal of freedom, too. I learned to hunt early on, and spent hours in the forests on my own. No one ever required me to spend time learning proper deportment, or the right way to form a fireball, and because I brought in lots of meat for the pot I was largely left alone. By the time I was ten I was doing most of the marketing, as well. I can't sew, can't do much cooking … but I can broil a mean rabbit on a spit." She grinned at him. "A talent which ought to come in very handy this trip."

"So it will. I admit, I can't cook, either … not even broiled rabbit. That's what comes of being a spoiled noble; very few practical skills." He was poking fun at himself—he had a number of practical skills—but she appeared to recognize it as the offering that it was.

"So that was how it was," she said briskly. "Which is why Bethany expected that her whim would be law, the way it always was growing up."

"I take it you told her differently."

"I did." She shook her head. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure what Bethany wanted. They didn't want to keep Anders and Oghren—they let me get away too easily for that. I think she wanted to know where we were going." Her eyes met Fergus's. "I don't think the fact that we're going after your brother is much of a secret."

"Yes, I've gotten that impression. Leliana went through some machinations to find out where we were going, as well."

"You think we're going to walk out of here tomorrow with no trouble?"

"No," Fergus said reluctantly. "No, I really don't."

"What do you want to do?"

Fergus groaned, looking up at the ceiling. "Much as I don't want to say this, I think we should get out of here while we can."

"Right now?"

"Can you think of a better time?"

"All right." Jennie stood up, straightening her tunic at last. Unbidden, Fergus wondered what that firm, muscular leg would feel like under his hands, and he shook his head almost angrily to clear the idea away. He was just tired, and had spent too much time being pursued by Leliana in the past few days. Surely he'd be back to normal once they were on the road. "Um … Fergus, if you don't mind?" She was looking at him uncomfortably, and belatedly he realized she couldn't change while he was still in the room.

"Right. Sorry. I'll pass the word and we'll meet you at the stables in thirty minutes. You think everyone can assemble that fast?"

Jennie grinned. "The way Zev and Isabela seem to stay one step ahead, they're probably already all packed and waiting for us."


	11. Tenting on the Old Campground

The late-night departure from Val Royeaux had been accomplished with a quiet swiftness that made Hawke very proud of her team. As she had predicted, Zev and Isabela were already mostly packed and ready to depart, and they had helped greatly in getting the others ready while Varric swiftly redrew the maps he had memorized.

The horses had been waiting for them at a stable near the northern gates of the city. The sleepy guards that manned the gate at night tried to protest at the unusual hour of their departure, but a neatly forged note in Leliana's handwriting, crafted by Zevran, cut through their arguments. He had plucked it back out of the guard's hand as they passed through. They'd taken the north road up to the Imperial Highway, which was exactly what anyone following would have expected them to do, not to mention being the easiest path to take in the dark of night.

It was the small hours of the morning when they reached the Imperial Highway. East would take them toward the northern road through Nevarra, the most logical way to take if they were really going north. West would take them straight toward the Tirashan.

"Well, how far are we taking this subterfuge?" Jennie asked Fergus. "We spent a lot of time trying to convince them that we were heading north; all of that would be wasted if we just went west right here. But if we do go up into Nevarra, it'll take a lot longer once we finally turn off the main road." 

"If I may," Varric said, spurring his horse closer to them. "Look at this." He held out a piece of vellum with a crude map sketched on it.

"That's what you drew?" Fergus asked in dismay.

"That's what I had time for before we left," Varric answered patiently. "Give me some more time, I'll fill in the details. Meanwhile …" He pointed to a branch of the Imperial Highway that left the main road a little way down and went northwest. "I think this is our best bet. If we followed this all the way to the end we'd be at Andoral's Reach, but I don't think we need to go that far. We leave the road at Ghislain, it's pretty much straight west into the forest, but far enough up that it'll be a while until anyone figures out we're not heading straight north. Going this way, it'll probably look like we're avoiding Tevinter on the elf's behalf. Besides, we'll end up crossing west far enough up that we'll miss most of the Nahashin Marshes, which is always good."

"What do you think, Fergus?" Jennie asked.

"That's good sense. Let's do it."

Jennie turned her horse to the right, raising her arm to signal the others to follow her. They trotted along at as rapid a clip as the darkness would allow. Oghren rode ahead, his eyes being better in the dark than those of the rest of them. Jennie remembered her experience in the Deep Roads, the everlasting darkness all around her. She couldn't have been at home in Orzammar, no matter how many torches burned around her. Of course, from what she'd gathered, Oghren wasn't particularly at home there, either.

There was little talking, all of them too tired to try to be heard over the clip-clop of the horses' hooves. Jennie thought ahead to a good stopping time, not wanting to exhaust the crew on the first day out, but wanting to get far enough away that they wouldn't be easily caught up with. Her ruminations came to a halt when she heard the sound of an arrow whistling past. She ducked, feeling the wind as the arrow flew over her hunched shoulders. It would have gone through her neck if she'd still been sitting up straight.

"That's far enough!" called a voice from the trees along the road. "We'll be taking the horses and any—ugh!"

The voice was cut off by the familiar sound of Bianca's ratchet and release being followed by the equally familiar sound of Varric affectionately patting her stock.

"Bianca, you minx," he said.

"Dismount!" Jennie called.

Another arrow sped through the air, and Fergus grunted as it hit his shoulder, bouncing off the metal. "I'm okay," he said, coming to Jennie's side.

They bunched the horses in the middle of the road, forming a circle around them. The horses were the most vulnerable members of the group, and to lose them now would be a serious inconvenience. Isabela stared into the trees, listening hard, and threw a dagger. The thunk of its landing was followed by a cry of pain, and Isabela drew another dagger.

One of the horses cried out as an arrow grazed it. Jennie saw a faint blue flash as Anders healed the cut, and groaned as she heard a loud whisper from the trees. "They have a mage!" Mages, while considered dangerous and volatile, were also a valuable commodity. Every bandit band could use a healer, after all. She sited through the trees toward the voice, and loosed an arrow, smiling slightly at the death gurgle that followed. Whoever these bandits were, they'd certainly chosen the wrong group to attack.

Zev had broken away from the rest of the group, as had Fenris. The two of them, crouched low, snuck across the road and into the trees. Oghren and Fergus were both restive, clearly not happy with the lack of solid bodies to fight.

"Hold your fire," Jennie called to Varric and Isabela, not wanting a stray arrow or knife to hit one of the elves. "Anders, how's that shield spell coming?" He'd been studying a book on defensive magic he had found in the home of the blood mage Gascard duPuis, working his way through the spells.

"Not ready yet," he said firmly.

A dying cry came from the trees, followed by another. Then a brief scuffle ended in a horrified gasp and a wet squelching sound.

"What was that?" Fergus asked.

"Fenris," Hawke and Isabela replied in identical tones of pride. While the elf's powers took some getting used to, they were a fearsome addition to any party's arsenal.

At last Zev's face appeared in the leaves, the dawn's approach making it light enough to see him. "All taken care of. We discovered a nice little camp, too, for resting, if you are all as weary as I." He grinned. "And if anyone should require a sleep aid, I would be more than happy to …"

"Thanks, Zev, I think we're good," Jennie said hastily. "Come down and help with the horses, will you?"

"Immediately." He lowered himself, his wiry but muscular arms flexing possibly a bit more than necessary, and dropped onto the ground.

As Zev had suggested, the bandits had a comfortable campsite near a stream, far enough off the road not to attract immediate notice. Oghren offered to take first watch, as apparently he'd napped in the afternoon. Jennie and Isabela collapsed in one tent, Fergus and Varric in another, and Anders and Zev ended up in the third. Fenris offered to join Oghren on watch rather than have to share a tent with the mage.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Zev woke in the late morning, feeling quite refreshed and a bit frisky. Isabela had made him aware that she was up by one in the bet. Zev didn't mind Isabela taking an early lead, but when such an opportunity to pull even with her presented itself, how could he let it pass untried?

He propped his arm up on his elbow and contemplated the man asleep next to him. Scruffy and unshaven though Anders was, there was no denying that he was very handsome. His body was muscular and well-built, and buried beneath the half-spirit half-man personality he was now trapped in, Zev was certain there lay a sensual being waiting to be released.

Gently, carefully, with a lifetime's worth of skill, he began unbuttoning Anders's coat, laying the two sides open. He lifted the shirt beneath it, sliding his hand against the mage's bare skin. Anders practically radiated heat, tempting Zev to simply curl up against the other man and soak the warmth into his bones. Instead, he moved his hand farther up, enjoying the rasp of hair against his palm.

Anders made a small sound in his throat, his body turning slightly toward Zev, into the touch. Resisting the urge to chuckle, Zev moved closer to the mage's side, his fingers tracing small patterns across Anders's stomach, moving down toward the top of the mage's trousers and gliding across the hair there.

"Mmm." Anders reached down in his sleep to shift himself inside his trousers. Zev smiled to himself, continuing to caress Anders's stomach. He shifted close enough to breathe lightly in the mage's ear.

Anders stirred, coming closer to wakefulness, and Zev capitalized on his advantage, moving quickly to straddle the mage's hips. He captured Anders's hands and raised them above his head, holding them there. The brown eyes opened, looking up into Zev's. "Huh? What? Zev? Wh-What're you doing?" He caught his breath as Zev shifted his hips, his length rubbing against Anders's. Anders licked his lips, and Zev dipped his head to follow the path of Anders's tongue with his own. The mage's eyelids dropped, his head tipping backward, as Zev's tongue slid between his parted lips, stroking and caressing until Anders opened his mouth completely, his tongue engaging Zev's in heated combat. Anders's hands were struggling in Zev's grip, but Zev kept him firmly at bay, maintaining friction at mouth and groin.

And then the nature of the struggles changed. Anders was practically crackling with energy, and his eyes, when Zev pulled back to look at him, were a brilliant glowing blue. "There is nothing of Justice in this!" the mage proclaimed in a voice not his own. "We must not be distracted from our purpose!"

Briefly Zev considered engaging the spirit in argument, but deemed it a futile proposition to argue with a being as single-minded as Justice. "Does Anders agree?" he asked instead, applying lips and tongue to the mage's neck.

He could feel the tension inside Anders's body, the two entities who shared it struggling for dominance in the moment, and he raised the tension by slowly drawing his pelvis back and forth across Anders's. He could feel the mage's length firming beneath him, and Anders moaned, twisting in Zev's grip. "Zev." It was the mage's own voice now, and Zev raised his head.

"What is it that you desire, lover?"

"Let go of my hands."

"And have you escape me, when I have you in such an intriguing position?" Zev blew softly into Anders's ear again, enjoying the shiver that traveled down the mage's body. "I think not."

"I'm not going to escape," Anders said breathlessly. "It's been—ah!" He caught his breath as Zev's hips rotated against his. "Too long."

"What of your friend, who does not seem to think that this is a good idea?" Zev's mouth hovered just above Anders's, his lips brushing the mage's as he spoke.

"He'll be quiet. I promise. Please, Zev." Anders lifted his head, attempting to capture Zev's mouth, while the elf held himself teasingly just out of reach.

"Hmm. Allow me to consider for a moment." Zev sat back, making himself comfortable sitting on top of the mage, and pressed his pelvis more firmly against Anders's. The mage's struggle beneath him was stronger now, and Zev could tell that what had begun as teasing was beginning to approach irritation. "I suppose it would be more enjoyable with your participation," he conceded, and let go of Anders's hands. The mage sat up, his arms wrapping tightly around Zev while his mouth claimed Zev's with a feverish desperation. Zev retained his seat in Anders's lap, returning the kiss with enthusiasm. He slid one hand up the back of Anders's neck, removing the tie that held the mage's hair back and then running both hands through the blond locks.

They remained intertwined, their mouths hungrily devouring each other, until at last Anders pulled back to breathe. His chest was heaving as he took deep, gulping breaths of air. Zev took advantage of the opportunity to push the coat off of Anders's shoulders and grasp the bottom hem of his shirt, pushing it up over the mage's muscular chest. He took one of Anders's nipples in his mouth, his tongue teasing it into hardness, and then repeated the procedure on the other side.

Anders dropped his coat on the ground behind him and pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, shaking his hair to let it fall around his face. Zev pushed the mage back until he was lying supine again, and began kissing Anders's chest and stomach while his hands busily unfastened the top of the mage's breeches. Anders groaned in relief as Zev pushed the fabric down around his hips and freed his erection from the constricting cloth, and then gasped, his hips thrusting up, when Zev's fingers closed around him.

The energy crackled again within the mage, the voice of Justice struggling to assert itself. "Stop this at once!"

"Shut up, Justice," Anders and Zev said at the same time. The assassin's mouth descended, and the mage closed his eyes, his fists pressed against the ground as Zev worked his special brand of magic. It must, truly, have been a long time for the mage, Zev reflected, because Anders's cries built quickly, the movements of his hips becoming more urgent, until he spent himself in Zev's mouth.

Zev climbed off the mage's half-dressed body, reaching for his wineskin and taking a swig from it. Anders remained on the floor, his eyes closed, his body twitching occasionally. At last he opened one eye, looking up at Zev.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What can I say?" Zev replied. "I had a whim."

"Is that whim likely to be repeated?"

Judging from the desperation with which the mage had given himself over to the encounter and the fight Justice had put up on the way, Zev considered that a second such entanglement seemed fraught with complications. "I would not say so, no," he said, shrugging, "but one never knows quite what will happen, does one?"

"I suppose not," the mage replied, moving at last to get up.

Zev left the tent, suspecting that Justice would have rather more to say when Isabela made her attempt, which was all the better for him.


	12. For What It's Worth

Refreshed by their sleep, the party was on the move again by noon, slightly heavier with the addition of the bandits' best goods. They'd been remarkably well equipped, and well entrenched, for a group of thieves so close to Val Royeaux. Jennie privately wondered whether they were some kind of additional tax on the populace, given tacit permission to remain, and to steal, as long as they paid their dues to the Orlesian authorities.

The remainder of the first day passed without incident. Jennie didn't bother with a camp that second night, wanting to continue riding as late as they could; it was slow going anyway, none of them being used to spending so much time on horseback, and she thought the time it would take to set up camp was better spent on the road. They rolled themselves in blankets in the midst of a copse of trees, atop a thick carpeting of old pine needles, preparing to head north up the road toward Andoral's Reach in the morning.

They were all stiff and sore the next morning as they saddled the horses, chewing on hard bread and dried meat for breakfast.

"The last time I did this, I was much younger," Zev complained.

"Can't get by without yer beauty sleep?" Oghren said, nudging Zev in the ribs with the end of his axe.

"Ah, my friend, it is not sleep that provides the beauty," Zev said. "Perhaps I could show you sometime."

"Show me what? Yer mud mask? Felsi used to make one o' those out o' gravel and grass. Real pretty."

Zev grimaced. "I do not doubt it. No, my methods are far more … soothing than mere skin care."

Oghren grunted. "What do I look like, a woman? Heh. If I was, I'd still be in my tent playin' with myself." He chuckled, shouldering his axe and walking toward his horse.

Isabela swung herself into the saddle, grinning at the exchange between the two men.

"Come on," Jennie said impatiently. "We're supposed to be a well-oiled machine here. Right now we seem to be missing a few cogs."

"All that soft livin'," Oghren said. "Pampered city folk don't know how to travel without their comfy carriages."

"Rowdy, some of us prefer to avoid even the carriages and simply stay home. Ouch," Varric muttered, wincing as he seated himself astride his horse.

"I could help you with that, you know, Varric," Anders put in.

"Thanks anyway, Blondie. I'd prefer to avoid having your magic at work in that particular area."

"I would be glad to put my magic at work there," Zev said, sidling his horse next to Varric so that his long, lean thigh was touching the dwarf's shorter one.

"If you people rode as well as you run your mouths, we would already be at our destination," Fenris said. He sat easily atop his horse, reins held comfortably in one hand. Clucking to the horse, he moved it to Jennie's side. "Hawke, we are at your disposal."

"It's about time," she said. "Thanks, Fenris." She dug her heels into her horse's side, and they started out. Fergus, at her side, was utterly silent, as he had been all morning, his eyes a thousand miles away. Jennie cleared her throat, glancing pointedly at Fenris, who nodded in return and dropped back to ride with Isabela and Varric, who were trying to agree on a set of rules for playing Wicked Grace on horseback. Jennie moved slightly closer to Fergus. "Want to talk about it?"

"Hm?" He turned to look at her, blinking as though he had forgotten the rest of them were there. 

"Clearly there's something bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Oh. Thanks, but …" He swallowed visibly. "It's just … this would have been Oriana's birthday."

"That's your wife?"

He nodded.

"I'm sorry," Jennie said. "That must be hard."

Fergus laughed a little. "I almost forgot. Do you believe that? She's only been dead a few years, and I almost forgot her birthday. I used to, sometimes. Forget her birthday, but on purpose, so she could get mad at me and then we could … uh … make up. Then I'd give her a lavish present and all would be forgiven."

Jennie was silent for a few moments, riding along next to him. The picture he painted sounded like a happy, passionate marriage, not unlike that of her own parents. Something had died in Jennie's mother when her father died—a willingness, a drive, a sense of responsibility. Jennie wondered if Fergus had lost himself in the same way when his family was killed. Certainly he still had to care for the welfare of his people, but what was this long trek they were taking but him putting the needs of his last remaining family member above the needs of Ferelden? Jennie reminded herself that she had no room to judge him. After all, she had put the needs of Kirkwall above those of her family, and here she was, just as alone as Fergus was.

"I'm sorry, I'm not much company today," Fergus said quietly.

"Apparently I'm not, either."

"Have you ever been married?" he asked.

Jennie was surprised by the question. "No, of course not."

"Why 'of course not'?" There was genuine interest in his voice. "You're the oldest in your family, wouldn't it have been wise for you to make a good marriage?"

"Possibly so," Jennie agreed. "But … offers weren't exactly pouring in. I was known as the wild girl, considered to be little better than taking a Chasind for a bride. No, the army was going to be my spouse. Until … until Ostagar." She heard the screams of her comrades, the growls of the darkspawn, and she shivered.

"You were at Ostagar?" Fergus shook his head. "I must have known that and forgotten. I missed the battle." Pain crossed his face.

"So I've heard. You were attacked while on patrol?"

"Yes. And stuck in a Chasind hut for most of the Blight, unable to remember who I was half the time." There was another long pause before he asked the next question, the question any two Ostagar survivors eventually got around to. "How did you escape?"

Jennie shuddered, darkness closing around her as she remembered the chill rain falling on her head, the nervous shifting of the archers in their place near the treeline, the shouts of "Here they come!" that ran up and down the line. From where she'd stood during the battle she couldn't see Carver's unit, and she had been alternately frightened for him and angry at him for leaving Mother and Bethany and joining the army. It had been so dark she hadn't known how she'd see to shoot the darkspawn instead of their own men, and her fingers, usually so sure, had fumbled with the bow, stiffened with fear and cold.

It had seemed endless, firing arrow after arrow into the melee, hoping they landed where she aimed instead of being taken by the wind, but eventually the cries of her fellow archers penetrated the fog that surrounded her, and Jennie realized their position was being overrun. "Carver!" she had shrieked into the wind. It would kill her mother to lose her only son to the darkspawn.

"Jennie?" Fergus prompted her.

She shook herself, coming back to the present with difficulty. "I survived the way everyone did, Fergus. I ran like a coward, I hid under the bodies of my friends and comrades hoping the darkspawn wouldn't somehow smell the living blood in me, and I was lucky that my brother was as much of a coward as I was." She had thought she might suffocate under the weight of the bodies; rising from under that stinking pile of corpses later—how much later, she didn't know—had been eerie and frightening. Terrified, she had poked her head out, looking around for the darkspawn, unable to meet the eyes of the few other living people she saw walking amongst the scattered dead. Many of them looked like walking corpses themselves, grey-faced and sickly. Later, seeing Aveline's husband succumb, she had realized they were tainted. How she and Carver had escaped that end was a mystery to her. Perhaps Flemeth had been right, perhaps it was fate. Of course, Carver's luck hadn't lasted very long. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't survived," she added.

"You can't blame yourself for the battle of Ostagar." His voice was soft, caring, and his brown eyes rested on hers with warmth.

Jennie was unaccountably angry. "Why not? You still blame yourself for the loss of your family, and you weren't even there! Who are you to tell me that I couldn't have done more?" She kicked the horse's sides, spurring it ahead so that Fergus wouldn't see the tears spilling down her cheeks.

She was still riding ahead, trying to calm herself, when the horse shied. Jennie clung to the horse with her knees, chirruping softly to calm the horse as it shifted skittishly in the road.

"Please, messere!" A little voice came up to her from near the ground, and Hawke looked down to see a young girl in a green dress, with the tracks of tears streaking her face. She must have come from the underbrush lining the road.

"What is it?" Jennie held her hand up for the others to stop, not wanting to frighten the little girl.

"It's my papa. He … he's sick. And some men came today, telling him that if he can't pay, they'll … they'll take our home and make us live in the fields! Oh, messere, please come stop them! Please!" The little girl clasped her hands together.

The skeptical silence behind her told Jennie all she needed to know about her companions' opinions. They thought this was a set-up. But Jennie couldn't help seeing in this little girl another one, who had lost home after home and had seen what that could do to a family. "All right, lead the way," she said. If it was an ambush, so be it.

"Hawke, are you certain of this?" Fenris asked.

"Yes." She glanced at them all, relieved that no one was bothering to argue. "Fergus, Varric … Oghren. You three come with me. The rest of you wait here. Right here," she added. Her eyes met Isabela's, and the pirate's faint smirk confirmed Jennie's suspicions—Isabela would follow her. She raised an eyebrow at her friend to convey agreement, and then turned back to the little girl. "Where is your farm?"

"It's just over that hill, messere."

Jennie swung down from her horse, as did the others she had named. The little girl's eyes widened when she saw the heavily armored Oghren and Varric's giant crossbow and Fergus, big and confident in his shining armor.

"You see?" Jennie said. "We really can help."

"I am so grateful, messere! This way." The little girl went ahead of them through the underbrush.

They emerged into a straggly wheat field, the little girl waving her arm to them to hurry.

"She speaks Common remarkably well for a little girl in this backwater no-man's-land," Varric pointed out quietly.

"Give 'er a chance," Oghren said in what he seemed to think was a whisper. "Y'never know why a little girl might need to know things, 'specially if 'er father's a waster."

Fergus remained silent, but his face expressed his doubts vividly. Jennie saw no point in adding her two coppers. Soon enough, they'd know whether they were walking into an ambush or not.

A small hut, weather-beaten and with oiled paper for windows, appeared at the end of the field. Several plump, well-cared-for horses were tethered in the midst of what looked like an attempt at a flower garden. Jennie vividly remembered trying her best to brighten up the dooryard of one of their homes with some weeds she'd pulled from a neighboring field, and crying bitterly when they wilted and failed to root.

The little girl paused by a fence. "They're in there. My papa, he's been sick. He can't work hard anymore. I don't know what will happen if they take our farm!"

"We're not going to let that happen," Jennie assured her, striding across the field toward the house.

"Hawke!" Varric called after her. "Let's think about this. We can't just barge in there and … Or maybe we can," he added in a resigned tone when Jennie paid no attention to him at all.

Inside the house, a small child cried on the floor while one slightly older attempted to provide comfort. A frail woman twisted her apron between her hands as she squinted at a paper on the table in front of her, while a man coughed violently on a bed near the fire. Three tall men stood over the woman, one of them holding out a quill pen.

"You have no other choice," he said in oily Orlesian. "You owe more than you can possibly pay, and we will be taking this property."

The woman's lips trembled as she reached for the quill.

"Mama! Mama!" The little girl ran to her mother's side. "These people are here to help."

The men turned around, glaring at the intrusion, and the woman looked up at Hawke in confusion before looking back at the girl. "Amelie, who are these people? Why are they here?"

"They're going to save the farm," the little girl said with confidence, and Hawke felt renewed determination that somehow she was going to manage to help this family.

"What seems to be the problem here?"

"Who are you?" The oily-voiced man came forward, his eyes fixed on Hawke.

"My name is Hawke," she said, pausing briefly to see if the name would have any meaning for the men, but it was immediately clear that it didn't. "I come from Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall? Then you have no business here."

"I think I do. How much do they owe?"

Varric had come in behind her now, and Fergus, and the men looked the new arrivals over before hastily conferring with each other. "Twenty sovereigns."

Twenty sovereigns. Hawke felt sickened. She knew people who threw twenty sovereigns away on a single meal, and here it was the difference between life and death for an entire family. She began to reach for the coin pouch hidden inside her armor, but Fergus's hand on her arm stopped her. She looked at him, ready to demand of him why he wasn't letting her do this, but he was looking at the men, a faintly amused expression on his face.

"How much do they really owe, gentlemen?" he asked.

Baleful glares met the question, and at last the second man, thinner and darker than the first, said, "Twelve sovereigns."

"Sodding nobles," growled Oghren, who had been standing in the doorway, his presence concealed by Fergus's body.

At the sight of the heavily armored dwarf, the first man blanched. "T-ten. Ten sovereigns!" he gasped.

"That's more like it," said Oghren, clearly quite pleased with himself.

Varric tossed a small purse at the men. "Keep the change," he said, not bothering to hide his contempt. "And don't come back. This family is under the personal protection of the Champion of Kirkwall. Maybe you've heard of her? She eats dragon brains for breakfast. Fresh dragon brains, that she kills herself every morning, just to stay in practice."

Jennie fought the urge to roll her eyes at that one. The three men bowed and scraped their way out of the house, getting on their horses and leaving.

"They'll be back, you know," Varric said quietly. "That type always is."

"Who are they?" Jennie asked Amelie and her mother.

"They are tax collectors," the woman said, her shoulders slumped. "They will be back next quarter."

"This farm is worth ten sovereigns a quarter?" Varric asked.

"No. We have not been able to pay, and the interest has risen over time. Or so they said."

The man in the bed coughed again. "They lied," he said. "But I can't prove it; they have kept all the papers themselves."

"You didn't keep your own accounts?" Fergus asked.

Amelie's father shook his head, coughing again, doubled over on the bed.

Jennie turned to Varric. "Go get Anders."

"Right."

"Hawke," Fergus said, "may I speak with you?"

She paused in the act of heading for the broom she saw hung up near the door, startled. "I … suppose so."

Outside the house, he turned to look at her, his brown eyes serious. "What is it that you hope to accomplish here? Look around, Hawke. This man is not a good farmer, and nothing you can do here today will make him one. You heard him, the tax collectors will be back again, to gouge out whatever they can from these people." Jennie started to answer hotly, but Fergus held up his hand. "I know that you want to stop that from happening, but you can't. Please don't give these people false hope, or promise them things you can't deliver."

Her mouth opened, but he was right; she couldn't change these people's lives overnight. "At least I can have the man healed," she said defiantly, daring him to argue with her any further.

Fergus nodded, but he still looked concerned.

Jennie ignored the look, turning back toward the house, where she saw a sight she certainly hadn't expected: Oghren, on the floor with the three children, animatedly telling them a story. He had to catch himself every third word as he began to swear, and it was clear none of the children knew what a nug was, but all of them were entranced, staring up at him in fascination.

Amelie's mother was up, ladling a thin broth into a bowl.

"My name is Jennie."

"Cecilie." The woman looked troubled. "What is it that you want here?"

"Just to help. We were riding by when Amelie found us and asked for our help."

"But why? Why should you bother?"

Jennie looked around the house, seeing a different but very similar home in her mind's eye. "Amelie reminded me of someone I … used to know," she said.

Cecilie didn't look convinced. "Whatever your reasons, I thank you. You know that we cannot repay you."

"We don't need to be repaid."

With another doubtful look, Cecilie moved past her, sitting down on the bed to spoon broth into her husband's mouth.

Anders came in then, with the others right behind him. The mage's eyes went immediately to the man in the bed. Hawke was glad to see he had his serious healer look—the last thing they all needed was Justice getting in the way right now and distracting him. He went to the bed, quietly bending over Cecelie and asking permission to treat her husband.

There was a tense moment when the couple realized Anders was a mage, but his gentle manner soon put them at ease. Oghren continued telling stories to the little ones, seeming to have an endless supply. Cecilie left her husband's bedside while Anders tended to him, and soon was deep in conversation with Zev on methods of flavoring food simply and cheaply. Outside the window, Jennie saw Fergus chopping wood while Isabela and Fenris sharpened the dull farm implements. Varric had hauled out the family's ledger and was studying it intently.

Amelie left the storytelling and came over to Hawke. "Thank you."

"Thank yourself. You were brave to come looking, and even braver to ask us for help."

"Mama says not to ask for help; that people will take advantage of you."

"Some of them will. But not all. You have to pick your people."

The little girl was quiet for a moment, and Hawke used the opportunity to pluck down the broom and begin to sweep up. After a few moments, Amelie said wistfully, "Were you born rich?"

"No. I was born in a house like this. I just … got lucky." Lucky? Really? she thought to herself, wondering if the rest of her family would agree with that statement. "And I learned how to fight, so no one would take away from my family what was theirs."

"Can you teach me?" Amelie's green eyes were direct, and she seemed suddenly older than her years.

Reluctantly, Jennie shook her head. "No, we can't stay. We have an important task to accomplish, and we can't delay it." The little girl's face fell, her eyes filling with tears, and Jennie reached out to touch her head. "I can tell you that lesson number one is never to take no for an answer. And number two is to take your chance to learn when you find it. Lesson number three is that fighting isn't always with swords."

Amelie wiped at her eyes. "What does that mean?"

"That means you teach yourself how to fight. Start small. Figure out what you're good at. Are you good at hitting things? Can you shoot a bow? Are you quick and clever with smaller blades? Practice somewhere safe and secret."

"He says the tax men will come back," Amelie said, glancing at Varric.

"He's probably right. He usually is."

"Thank you, Hawke," Varric called, and Jennie grinned.

"I'll never live that down," she said to Amelie. "Lesson number four—make friends you can trust."

Anders called then from the father's bed, and Hawke went over to them, while Amelie finished the sweeping.

"Hawke, he should recover, but not fully. He had some badly broken ribs, and some damage was done that I can't fix. He'll be out of bed and on his feet within a couple of days, but he'll never be as strong as he was."

The father nodded; clearly Anders had already shared this news with him. "Anything is better than …" He let the words trail off, but they all knew—if Anders hadn't been there, he would probably have died.

"We'll leave you some money," Hawke said quietly.

"We don't—"

"It's not charity," she said, cutting him off. "Consider it … a debt repaid. Someone saved my life once, when I was in worse circumstances than this. I'm merely passing on the favor."

Amelie's father seemed to accept this explanation.

In the early afternoon, they got ready to leave, hoping to make a few more hours riding before nightfall. Jennie had thought about staying the night, but Fergus had urged her to keep moving, and she thought perhaps she understood his reasoning—the longer she stayed, the more she would think of to do, and the longer she would want to stay. Amelie's family needed to stand on its own.

The little girl walked her to the door, and Hawke bent down. "This is for you." She handed Amelie a small pouch with the Hawke crest emblazoned on it. Inside were five sovereigns.

"I don't understand; you already gave Papa money."

"This isn't for your family. You keep this, hidden safe, in case you need it. If anything … if you ever need help, find a way to get to Kirkwall, present this to Bodahn Feddic, my houseman. He'll know you came from me, and he'll help you. The money is to help you get there safely. And Amelie … lesson number five. Hold on to your family. Don't ever let them go."

With those final words, Jennie tore herself away from the little girl, leaving her watching from the doorway as she stumbled across the fields after the others. Fergus was waiting for her, and he fell into step beside her.

"They're going to be all right," he said.

"Better, maybe, but all right? I don't know."

He stopped, then, turning her toward him with his strong hands on her shoulders. "Jennie, you can stop to help every struggling family we pass, and it's never going to bring yours back."

"But I can help! I can—"

"You can't do enough. You'll never be able to do enough." Fergus sighed. "When you run a Teyrnir, you learn quickly that money and power can't solve the problems of everyone who depends on you."

"I don't run a Teyrnir," she snapped, hating the implacably reasonable tone of his voice.

"No, but you're a noble now, with the kind of power and money that can make a difference, and I know how easy it is to want to spend it all on everyone who needs it."

"You know, I've been helping the people of Kirkwall for a couple of years now. I don't need you to tell me how to take care of my people."

"Maybe not, but if you see yourself in all of them, you'll break your heart." His voice softened, and, tightening his grip on her shoulders, he drew her almost imperceptibly closer to him. "You're a generous woman, and there's nothing wrong with that, but you can't spend so much of yourself on others that there's nothing left for you."

Jennie felt trapped there by his eyes, unable to look away, and she was having trouble breathing, her heart hammering in her chest. "Look who's talking," she managed to say. "How much of you do you spend on yourself?"

"Touche." He smiled, his eyes lighting, and Jennie was struck suddenly by what a handsome man he was. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a moment there she had the wild, insane thought that he might kiss her. And then he let her go, his hands giving a little push as they released her shoulders, and turned away, moving back toward the road with undignified haste.

She felt foolish for even thinking such a thing. It was his wife's birthday, she reminded herself. Probably he was just lonely and missing his family, and Jennie had ruined a nice moment by taking it the wrong way. With a final glance back across the fields at Amelie's home, she followed him.


	13. In the Still of the Night

By the sixth night out, they had developed routines for setting up the campsite. Fergus and Fenris went to work putting up the tents; Jennie and Varric hunted for dinner. Oghren hauled firewood and Anders went for water and then started the fire. Isabela skinned whatever game was caught, and Zevran, by communal decision, did the cooking. Anders usually ended up with the clean-up, as he tended to be the quickest about it.

They'd eat, talk a little, mostly about inconsequential subjects, and then head for bed or watch. Tonight first watch had been drawn by Oghren and Anders. They stayed up, near the fire, while the others slowly settled down.

Oghren took a contemplative pull off the flask he carried. "Want some?" He held it toward Anders.

The mage looked at it longingly. "I wish I dared to. Justice would not be pleased. He is already upset with me for embarking on an affair."

"Oh? Got a girl back in Kirkwall?"

"No." Anders looked in the direction of the tents, then turned back to Oghren. "With Zevran," he said softly. "He came to me the first day out on the road."

Oghren snorted. "Tumble's not the same as an affair."

"It wasn't a tumble!" Anders protested.

The dwarf frowned. "What happened to you, Sparkle-fingers? Used to be you knew the difference. Swishy's not into you—he's workin' on a bet."

"A what?"

"A bet. Him an' Flashy-tits tryin' to see who can bed the whole company." Oghren grinned, taking another swig from the flask. "So far, they're even."

Anders stared at his friend, mouth agape. "A bet? No, that can't be right. He was ..." 

There was pity on the dwarf's face, pity that made Anders uncomfortable. They were old friends, but he had never seen that particular expression on Oghren's face before—as if he, Anders, were the foolish ne'er-do-well, and Oghren was the wiser of the two. Anders's face flushed with embarrassment at having been caught romanticizing, and he, too, wondered what had happened to him that a practiced seduction had worked so well, and fooled him into imagining intimacy where none existed. He looked into the fire to cover the confusion and anger he couldn't help but feel. After a moment, the secondary import of Oghren's statement, and the knowledge behind it struck him.

"Wait, you ... and Isabela? What about Felsi?"

Oghren spat into the fire. "Felsi left me. Took little Ricky, went back to Orzammar with him."

"Ricky?"

"Short for Wulfric; named 'im after the Commander." He grunted. "Man saved me from drownin' in my own filth in Orzammar. The lava's own end for a warrior, stripped of 'is weapons and 'is caste, too. Stone woulda turned me away from the very shame. Now ... now I got things to do. People to care about. Even if she didn't stay, she might've. Yeah, that's why I'm goin' along. Blighter mighta up and run from the Wardens, but we look after our own."

There was a pause, and Oghren glanced sideways at Anders, his eyes narrowed.

"What are you talking about?" Anders asked.

"Didn't tell ya yet, eh? S'pose it slipped their minds that they hadn't told everybody." Oghren shifted closer on the log. "We're goin' to find 'im."

"Wulfric?"

"Yeah."

"What for?" 

"Big brother's got some kind of a burr in 'is butt." 

"Hm." Anders looked back into the fire. "Thanks for telling me." 

"Figured you oughta know." Oghren took another swig of his flask and looked up into the sky. "Looks like watch is about over."

Anders glanced up as well. "How can you tell?"

"See them stars? They were over there when we sat down." Oghren sighed, staring up into the night. "Down in Orzammar, nothing ever changes above ya. Look up an' it's the same thing, hour after hour, day after day. Up here, every time you look up, it's somethin' different." He glanced at Anders. "Never understood how you folks could take it for granted."

"The view from a prison might change, but you're still looking out on it from a prison," Anders said. "What's to appreciate about being locked up while the world passes you by?"

It was familiar territory, an argument they'd wrangled over a number of times, so Oghren let it pass. "Who's up next?"

"Zevran," Anders said. "I'll wake him."

"Be gentle, Sparkle-fingers." Oghren snorted. "I'll get Beardless."

Zev emerged from his tent, stretching luxuriously. He hadn't been asleep, merely drowsing in his blankets and thinking back over past conquests; a pleasant pastime that had been entirely ruined by Anders's gruff entrance. It was easy to surmise that someone had informed Anders of the wager between Zev and Isabela. Truthfully, Zev was relieved. Anders had been mooning around him a bit too much for the elf's liking—not that Zev objected to being the object of adoration, but it was difficult to seduce one mark when the previous one was always watching.

He looked forward to this evening's watch immensely, smiling at Varric as the dwarf emerged from his tent. "Good evening, my ruggedly handsome friend."

"Flash." Varric cast him an amused glance. "It isn't going to work."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Is that not what they say?"

"They say it, all right, but often the cost of the venture exceeds the gain." Varric's brown eyes were distant, and he busied himself buffing an invisible scratch on Bianca's stock to cover the uncharacteristic moment of seriousness.

"You have ventured many times, so I understand. Surely there must be a good tale to tell ... or several."

"Which tale is it that you're looking for?" Varric asked. 

"Walk with me. We will patrol the perimeter."

"Walk with you in a dark forest? I've heard more subtle propositions."

"Ah, my friend, I have nothing but the best interests of the party at heart. How could you think otherwise?"

"Possibly because I've met you," Varric responded, but he shouldered Bianca and followed Zev out of the main camp. As they walked, he looked up at the elf, noting the change from smiling flirt to deadly assassin in Zevran's cautious movements and the narrowing of the elf's brown eyes. "What brings you along on this chase?" he asked. "You seem more likely to remain in a city, enjoying wine, women, song, and the deadly game of assassinship."

"I could ask the same question of you," Zev observed.

"Yes, but you didn't. Or, at least, I beat you to it."

"True enough." Zev paused, leaning against a tree trunk, his gaze far away. "When I first accepted the commission to kill the Wardens, it was with the hope that none of us would survive the encounter. I had ... erred in judgment, and caused the death of someone I—" He heard the raw tone in his own voice, and caught himself. "But you surely did not wish to hear such a tale as that."

Varric smiled. "You mean you don't wish me to hear such a tale."

"Would you?"

"Hm." The dwarf shrugged, looking away. "I don't know that I'd advise it. Stories told to me have a tendency to become embroidered and shared with others."

"And yet you tell your own stories to no one. That strikes me as a rather lonely way to get by, no?"

"Do me a favor, Flash. Restrict your curiosity to what's in my pants, and stay out of my head," Varric snapped. He stalked off through the woods. Not looking back, he failed to see the slow smile that spread across Zev's face. 

The rest of their watch was a quiet one, Varric uncharacteristically irritated and Zev quiet and reflective. Wulfric, had he been present, might have recognized that the elf's silence meant he was quite pleased with himself. The story of Rinna had nearly come out of its own volition; Zev respected the dwarf's natural ability to invite confidences. Varric would have made a fine assassin, with some training, the elf reflected. But somehow the near-revelation of Zev's own past had triggered a response in the dwarf that was far more real than the face he usually displayed, and Zev found that sight intriguing.

Hawke and Isabela took the next turn at watch. They each moved silently through the forest in opposite directions, to start off with, following the perimeter of the camp. Jennie found no signs of anyone nearby. She stood for a few minutes in the darkness of the trees listening to the softly warbled song of a nightingale somewhere in the distance.

"You don't think that's a real bird, do you?" Isabela's voice startled Jennie out of her thoughts, soothed by the quiet song. She turned to look at the pirate. 

"It's either that or an excellent imitation."

Isabela was silent in the dark, although Jennie could imagine the raised eyebrow. 

"You think ... Sister Leliana?"

"Yup."

Jennie thought about that, and shook her head. "Too clumsy; too obvious. More likely someone who'd like us to think of Leliana."

"Maybe." Isabela turned on her heel, the sailcloth of her tunic a dim white in the shadows. Jennie wouldn't have known it for more than a flash of moonlight if she hadn't been aware Isabela was there. She followed the pirate back to the camp.

"Why would the Chantry be so desperate to find the Warden?"

"Beats me." Isabela sank down on a log, facing away from the fire and staring thoughtfully into the foliage. "What do you think sent his Teyrnship off looking for his brother?"

Jennie shook her head. "He's worried, but I don't know about what. Or why."

"Maybe he—and the Chantry—know something we don't." Isabela grinned suddenly. "You could find out."

"I could? Why me?"

A slow smile spread across Isabela's face. "Sometimes I forget what blinders you wear. The Teyrn fancies you, Hawke. Haven't you noticed?"

Jennie frowned. "I think you're exaggerating. H-He's looked at me a couple of times, yes, but that's just because I'm the closest woman around ... other than you, of course."

"And trust me, he hasn't looked at me any more than anyone else does. Less, even. In other circumstances, I might consider that a challenge, but I have enough of those to keep me occupied for now." Isabela stretched out her long legs, leaning back on her hands. 

"You, enough challenges? Never thought I'd see the day." Jennie grinned, and Isabela chuckled.

"A girl has to keep herself busy, after all."

"You're wrong about Fergus. He's still in love with his wife ... besides, someone like him would never look twice at a girl like me. Skinny apostate's daughter." Jennie murmured the last words almost under her breath. For all her lack of practical experience where it came to men, she knew enough to recognize attraction when she saw it. Fenris, Anders, Merrill ... all of them had looked on her with wistful eyes that followed her wherever she went. Even Isabela had made a play. That kind of interest Jennie was familiar with—that of fellow lost, damaged souls drawn to what appeared to be her strength. But to be the target of admiration for a handsome, powerful man like Fergus? Everything in Jennie's experience said that possibility didn't exist. 

"I remember when you walked into the Hanged Man that first time, when I was fighting with that man ... Slim? Lucky? Lucky. Not that he was." Isabela smirked. "You weren't sure of yourself, you weren't sure of the hangers-on you'd collected, but you knew what you needed to do, and you were damned sure going to do it, no matter what tried to get in your way."

"I didn't have any other choice."

"Yes, you did. You could have done what all the other Fereldan refugees did—huddled in rags in Darktown, eating rats and garbage and waiting for someone stronger to come and rescue you. But you didn't. You became the strong one. If I can see that, surely someone like Fergus Cousland, who's no dummy, can, too."

Jennie looked over at her friend. "Even if you're right, which I'm not saying you are, what would I do about it?"

Isabela stretched like a cat. "I know what I'd do about it."

"I'm not you."

"You could be. You just need some practice."

It was an interesting thought. Jennie looked at her friend, admiring the confidence and the power that were so constantly present in Isabela's demeanor. Could she be like that, so seemingly certain of herself and her own attractions? Of course, Isabela wasn't really everything she pretended to be. There was something running under the surface of her, a depth that belied her attempt to present herself as shallow and hedonistic. In truth, Jennie sometimes thought Isabela was the loneliest of them all ... except for Varric. No, Jennie decided, she preferred not to present a false front ... she'd never be able to deceive herself, much less anyone else.

"Ooh, look at the sky," Isabela said. "I think it's time to see if Fenris sleeps naked, don't you?"

"Pass. And remember, he's on watch ... don't distract him for too long."

"I wish I could," Isabela muttered, getting to her feet and heading for Fenris's tent.

Since dawn would come while they were on watch, Fergus used the time to begin prepping for breakfast. Growing up, he'd never had much chance to learn how to cook, and so he'd been watching Zev with avid interest on this trip, getting a sense of the skills and talents necessary to turn out a good meal. It was a challenge, and took his mind off the heat from the wooden ring he wore. They were making as good time as they could, Fergus thought somewhat defensively. Wulfric would just have to do the best he could until Fergus got there. 

Fenris shifted against the tree he was leaning on. The elf had his arms crossed over his chest and was glaring down at his bare feet. Isabela had been smiling broadly when she exited the elf's tent after waking him up, and Fergus wondered what had happened in there that had made one so pleased and one so angry. 

"I take it Isabela's good-morning wasn't to your liking," he remarked, measuring flour out of a sack.

"It was not."

"Cold water?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did she throw cold water on you? Nan—our nurse—used to do that to me, if she thought I wasn't getting up fast enough."

"Oh. No. I would have preferred cold water." There was silence, and then Fenris said, "Isabela has very quick hands."

Fergus's eyebrows flew up. So it was like that, was it? "Some men enjoy that kind of thing," he said, swallowing a grin.

"Others do not. Others prefer to be left alone." 

"I see. Isabela isn't to your taste, then?" How could she not be? Fergus wondered. Isabela's charms would attract any man ... unless, of course, Fenris preferred his own gender. On the other hand, Fergus had to admit that he himself wasn't particularly drawn to the pirate, despite her many attractions.

"I prefer," Fenris repeated, "to be left alone."

"That can get tiresome, after a while," Fergus said softly.

"So tiresome that a diversion is required?" The elf's tone was measured, and Fergus looked up at him, so startled he nearly spilled the batter he was mixing.

"What do you mean?"

"You. And Hawke."

"What about ... er ... us?" Fergus asked, annoyed with himself that he had stumbled over the 'us' as if there actually was one.

"I have seen the way you regard her." 

"And you don't approve?" The words surprised Fergus, as he had intended to deny that he regarded Hawke in any way anyone needed to be concerned about ... and why did he care whether this man approved or not? He frowned. "What business is it of yours?"

Fenris's lips thinned, and he looked away. Ah, thought Fergus. The wind sat in that corner, then. Hawke treated Fenris as she did Isabela, or Varric, so the torch the elf carried appeared a hopeless one. 

"I have no intentions of ... That is ... Yes. I have no intentions," Fergus said, and he intended to leave it at that, but his foolish mouth ran on. "Does Hawke ... Has she had any ... entanglements?" Maker above, he was stammering like a schoolboy. Get a grip, Fergus, he commanded himself.

"No," snapped the elf. "None that I am aware of." He was studying Fergus, and seemed to be weighing his words carefully. "Her family has taken up much of her focus. That has been true her whole life, as I understand it. She gives little thought to herself—she is always listening to the problems of others, but speaks rarely of her own."

Fergus was reminded for a moment of Wulfric, who had gotten far with the same approach; listening, rather than talking. It was no wonder they both had collected such loyal friends, he thought. "Have you ever considered listening to her?"

Fenris shook his head sharply, negating any possibility. "I ... have nothing to offer someone like Hawke," he said. "An involvement with me would be only to my benefit, not to hers." His eyes lifted to Fergus's face, and then narrowed, as though he were thinking.

"Then we seem to be in a similar boat," Fergus said, wanting to cut the elf's speculations off cleanly. "I have nothing to offer any woman but a tainted heart. And a Teyrnir," he added with a rueful grin. "But the kind of woman who would choose me just to be a Teyrna wouldn't be worthy of taking my mother's place." For a moment sadness overwhelmed him. He missed his mother, who would have slapped him upside the head and told him to get on with his life years ago, and would have seen to it that he couldn't drown himself in the cares of the Teyrnir. If his mother were here right now ... Well, he rather suspected his mother would have liked Jennie.

Fergus set his jaw. Why could he not keep his thoughts from wandering that way? He refused to dally with Hawke when he knew he would only break her heart. Resolutely he turned back to his breakfast preparations, and breathed a sigh of relief when Zev emerged from his tent, stretching, and cast a flirtatious glance Fenris's way. 

"Such smoldering darkness so early in the morning, my friend. How do you do it?"

Fenris snorted and ducked into the trees in the direction of the stream, while Zev joined Fergus in the breakfast preparations.


	14. Love Is a Battlefield

They rode into Ghislain in mid-morning on a grey, drizzly day. All of them were drooping; even the horses plodded along with their heads down. Zev observed the wooden buildings and the muddy main street of the town with disdain. "Personally, I would not put such a place on a map."

"No soft beds an' even softer women waitin' here," Oghren grunted. "Had yer heart set on the civilities, did ya?"

"Civilities, perhaps not, but ..." Zev trailed off with a sigh.

"It's a remote outpost on the edge of Orlais," Jennie reminded them. 

"Yes. Precisely. We are still in Orlais," Zev protested. 

"Maybe they have some good wine, at least," Fergus said optimistically.

"We can only hope so, my Teyrn."

A tavern was open about half-way down the street, and Jennie nimbly dismounted and tied her horse to a hitching rail in front. "Let me go in first, and I'll scout out the lay of the land," she said, relieved when none of them bothered to argue with her. Fergus had been pushing them all to ride hard, and what had started off as a light-hearted jaunt was becoming something much more serious. A good long rest was called for before they headed out across the swamp into completely uncharted territory, where the Maker only knew what might be awaiting them. Looking around at the rough buildings, Jennie didn't think Ghislain was going to offer the sophisticated palates of her people much to work with. Of course, most of them had been used to roughing it at one point in their lives or another, but in all cases that had been several years ago, at least. They'd all grown used to a certain standard of living—with the exception of Anders, who continued to live in his squalid clinic in Darktown ... but even he spent a fair amount of his time with Varric, and despite living in the Hanged Man, Varric over the years had managed to bring his suite to a level that might easily be termed 'palatial'. 

Jennie opened the tavern door, and immediately found herself the subject of curious—and in some cases hostile—stares. Pretending not to notice, she walked to the bar.

"What is it that you want?" the bartender asked in a thick Orlesian accent. 

"Someplace to put a large party up for the night."

"Try the stables, Fereldan," called a voice from the back of the room.

Jennie ignored him, her eyes on the bartender. "Well?"

"Down the road, the White Grape. They can put you up." The bartender spat the words reluctantly.

"Fine. Thank you. Also, my party may be in town for a few days. We number elves and dwarves among our companions, and I expect them to be left strictly alone." She turned, looking into the dark back corner of the room, from which the voice had come. "Anyone who disturbs them will have to deal with me."

"And just who might you be?" asked another patron, closer to the front of the room. "You look like a stiff breeze would carry you clear to Antiva."

"Try it. You'll find I'm a bit harder to blow over than you might think." She ignored the snickers that followed the remark. Here, she was confident she could back up her claims.

Outside, she untied her horse from the hitching rail and mounted. "Down the road," she said, nodding in the direction the bartender had pointed. "Cheer up, Zev, the place is called the White Grape. They must have wine."

Varric chuckled. "Actually, Hawke, I believe Ghislain is known for producing a non-alcoholic grape juice that's used in Chantry ceremonies in the Circles of Magi."

"You must be joking," Fergus said.

"No, he's right," Anders put in. "The Circles frown on mages drinking. Which is why, of course, so much time is spent learning how to steal ale and wine from the Templars' stores." He grinned suddenly. "Irving used to protest loudly in front of Greagoir about how shocked and appalled he was that any mage should stoop to thievery, and how he'd put a stop to it if he ever caught any of us ... but he never actually tried to catch anyone, and often used to sigh wistfully in the presence of the apprentices about how much he loved good wine and how hard it was to get some."

"Didn't the apprentices get in trouble if the Templars caught them?" Isabela asked.

"Somehow or other, they never did. Occasionally Greagoir would shout very loudly 'Here I come, around the corner', if there were particularly loud noises coming from the wine cellar."

"He sounds like a good Templar," Jennie said.

Anders fixed her with a direct gaze, and she could see the blue flare of Justice at the back of his eyes. "There are no good Templars."

Fenris shifted in his saddle, clearing his throat, and Varric groaned. "Elf, we all know where this argument leads, and neither of you is ever going to win it. How about we don't start the same old, same old right now, while we're all tired and cold?"

The elf grunted in response, but made no further comment. The martial blue light faded from Anders's eyes, as well, and Jennie cast a grateful glance in Varric's direction.

The White Grape was a moderate-sized building set just a little way out of town, but it offered a warm stable in the back, which was more than Jennie had expected. Oghren volunteered to bed down in the stable and keep a watch on the horses, to the great relief of all the other men in the party.

Fergus took the lead as they walked into the inn, flashing his charming smile at the plump innkeeper. She simpered at him. "Why, my lord, what brings such a fine gentleman to my establishment?" Her voice was high and nasal.

"I'm told the White Grape is the best place to stay north of Val Royeaux, and that it rivals even many of the establishments in that fair city," Fergus said, bowing to her. "In addition, the kindness and open mind of the innkeeper is legendary." He didn't motion to the varied group behind him, but his meaning was clear.

The innkeeper's smile faltered a bit as she took in the looks of Fenris, Zev, and Isabela. "No trouble, I hope? I don't want any trouble."

"No trouble at all. All we want is a quiet place to spend the night. Quietly," Fergus reiterated with assurance.

"Well, then ..." She led him to the desk and pulled out the ledger, not without a couple more wary glances at his companions. "How many rooms?"

"Four."

Jennie ran through the sleeping arrangements. Herself and Isabela, of course. Zev with Fenris, she thought. Fenris and Anders couldn't be trusted in a room alone together, and it was laughable to think either one would get any sleep under that circumstance. Additionally, Zev and Anders seemed to have some kind of tension between them, and while perhaps they needed to be locked in a room together to work through their trouble, Hawke didn't particularly want that to happen in an unfriendly town on the edge of civilization. So Zev and Fenris, Varric and Anders, which would leave Fergus in a room to himself. He'd probably appreciate that, she thought. He couldn't be used to being in the midst of all these people all the time.

"Fergus, would you and Anders and Zev mind seeing that our belongings all get in the right rooms?" she asked. "I'll take Varric, Fenris, and Isabela and we'll go see if we can pick up some supplies in town."

"Sounds fair to me. I can't wait to stretch out on a real mattress again," he said. 

Quietly, she gave him the suggested sleeping arrangements, to his approval, and the two groups split up. 

The single street was lined with shops and businesses, most of them looking as though they were on their last legs. 

"What do we actually need?" Jennie asked.

Varric, their supply master, consulted his list, which seemed rather long.

"Let me see that," Isabela said, snatching it unceremoniously out of his hand. "What's this? Truffled nug sausages, five hundred thread count sheets, thick cream-colored card stock ... This sounds more like plunder than overland travel supplies. Someone's planning to live high on the nug."

Varric grinned at the dwarfism, plucking the list out of Isabela's hands. "A man can dream, can't he? Besides, that's the wrong list. This would be the simple, rough fare you're looking for." He handed her a different piece of vellum, one with much less writing on it.

"Yes, this sounds more like it," she said, with a wistful sigh. "You're right, Varric. Truffled nug sausages beat jerked beef any day of the week."

"Not a decent vintage of wine to be found, either," Fenris chimed in unexpectedly, after a disappointed perusal of a shop labeled "Vun". "At least, I assume that must be what this establishment purveys," he added, with a glare at the misspelled sign.

"Really, what did you all expect?" Jennie snapped. "You're all acting like spoiled children."

Isabela grinned. "Sorry, Mother."

Jennie led them to a small shop that sold general goods. They worked their way down Varric's list, finding almost everything they needed to replenish. Fenris lounged by the door with his arms folded, glaring at anyone who came in, an attitude that the shopkeeper didn't seem to resent, oddly enough. After a first interested perusal of Fenris's markings, she appeared to have turned her attention completely away from him. 

While Isabela pocketed a few small trinkets that struck her fancy, and Varric and Jennie got down to business pulling lanterns off shelves, the shopkeeper quietly scribbled on a piece of vellum. She handed it to the small child who had been clutching at her skirts, disentangling the fabric from the little fist with some difficulty and gently urging him to go. Fenris looked sharply over at the woman and child as the little boy darted out the back door. The woman refused to meet his eyes, and Fenris straightened up.

"Hawke."

His voice held an unmistakable note of warning. Without looking at him, Jennie jerked her head quickly to indicate that she'd heard him. The pace of her selections speeded up immediately, and she and Varric piled their purchases on the counter.

The shopkeeper began writing up the order, very slowly, and Hawke banged a hand on the counter. "No dawdling," she said sharply. She dropped three gold sovereigns on the worn wood. "This should cover it all, don't you think?"

The woman's eyes darted from Hawke, to Fenris, to Isabela, before settling on Varric. "Messere," she began in a wheedling tone, "I'm just a poor woman, trying to work out what's fair. You're staying right here in town; what's your friend's hurry?"

"My friend doesn't like to waste time," Varric said with an affable smile. "Neither do I." He added one more sovereign. "I'm certain that if you find we've overpaid, you can have the change delivered to us at the White Grape."

There was little the shopkeeper could say to that. Wringing her hands in her apron, she nodded.

"Excellent." Varric collected their pile of supplies, sharing it between himself and Fenris and ostentatiously leaving Hawke's and Isabela's hands unencumbered. "My good lady," the dwarf said, nodding at the shopkeeper as they left.

"What was that all about, Fenris?" Hawke asked.

"She sent a missive to someone."

"Who, do you think?" Isabela asked.

Fenris shrugged. "Does it matter? It was unlikely to be any friend of ours."

"Good point."

They returned to the inn without incident. Hawke and Varric took the supplies upstairs. Isabela hovered near Fenris. "I'm bored," she said, pouting. "I want to do something fun. Let's do something fun, Fenris."

"Such as?"

"I have some very entertaining ideas." Leaning as close as he would let her, she whispered a few of them into his sensitive elven ear, letting her breath brush the delicate edge, and was rewarded by his shiver and the blush that was faintly discernible in his dark skin. 

Fenris growled, batting her away. "Do not be ridiculous." He stalked off in the direction of the stables, and Isabela stared after him, feeling triumphant. The emotion under his voice was growing. He was angry now, but once he was angry and aroused all at once ... the very thought made her shiver. She turned away, back to the inn.

The inside of the stable was dim and warm, with the sounds of Oghren snoring and the horses chewing their hay soothing Fenris's disturbed emotions. Could he deny the longings Isabela awoke in him much longer? The pirate was warm and tempting and offering herself so clearly—but she didn't know what she was asking of him, or why her suggestions brought equal amounts of desire and dismay.

His tortured thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the stable door. "Here, elf!" shouted a voice. "Couldn't believe it when we got that note. You're going home to your master!"

Fenris's head shot up, his nostrils flaring as he automatically placed the accent. Tevinters? Here, in an Orlesian backwater?

"Come and get me, then," he said, turning. He was fairly caught in the stable; nowhere to run. He'd have to fight them. But as they set upon him, five of them, Fenris realized that he couldn't fight effectively in here. The low roof kept him from pulling his sword or utilizing it properly, and the skittish horses kept him from using his lyrium abilities. He had learned on the road that his powers startled the horses and made them lash out in fear. An excellent tool, Fenris thought grimly, if the chances hadn't been so good that they would strike him with their flailing hooves along with the bounty hunters. He crouched at bay in the rear of the stable as the bounty hunters approached, lashing out with a strong, sinewy arm and knocking the closest one back into the man behind him. There was a limit to what Fenris could do bare-handed, and it occurred to him that if he got out of this alive, he could do worse than ask Isabela to help him train with daggers.

He blocked a blow, getting a gash on the arm in the process, and kicked the knee of one of the bounty hunters. The man groaned, hobbling back from the fray, but he raised a crossbow to his shoulder, bracing himself against the wall. Fenris dodged the bolt, which put him in line for a heavy blow from a mace that caught him full in the chest, throwing him back against the wall with a heavy thump. The blow knocked the breath out of him. These men were trying to take him alive, which opened up some possibilities, Fenris thought, and then he groaned as the mace made contact with his stomach. He doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Hey!" shouted a voice suddenly, and Oghren burst from the pile of hay he'd been snoozing in, his axe springing to his hand as though it had been forged there. He made a strange but fearsome figure, standing there with the wickedly sharp axe and pieces of hay sticking out of his sleep-tousled hair and beard. He seemed to take in the situation rapidly, however, and he advanced on the Tevinters, shouting. "You want him? You gotta take out Oghren first!"

The bounty hunters exchanged glances. Fenris remained where he was, gathering his strength, with one wary eye on the all-too-competent mace-wielder. Oghren was among them now, his axe swinging and smashing into the weapons and armor of the Tevinters. Fenris blinked as a figure dropped down out of the rafters and stabbed one of the Tevinters in the back. Isabela. Where had she come from? And where had she been while they were using him for a punching bag? he thought ungraciously.

Between Oghren's axe and Isabela's daggers, the Tevinters couldn't stand for long. The horses moved skittishly, unnerved by the scent of fresh blood, and Isabela went quickly to quiet them, her calloused hands gentle on their necks. Fenris watched the strong, sun-browned hands stroking the horses, gentling them, and he wondered what it would be like to be comforted by the touch of another person. 

"Elf, ya shoulda hollered if ya needed help."

Fenris pushed himself painfully away from the wall. It hurt to stand up straight, and he suspected he might have a broken rib. "I ... appreciate your assistance," he said stiffly. He had grown accustomed to being aided since meeting Hawke, but he had never managed to be comfortable expressing gratitude. "I am in your debt."

Stiffly, he moved out of the stable, brushing past Isabela.

"Fenris!" She followed him, her hand circling his wrist. He flinched at the burn that came with the touch of her bare fingers on his markings, and yanked his arm from her grasp. "You're hurt."

"I will be fine." He kept walking, wanting her to leave him alone, and yet not wanting that, either. 

"I can help, so that you don't have to go to Anders."

Fenris stopped, looking at her in surprise. Isabela usually espoused practicality, and scoffed at his rejection of magic healing. "Why?" he asked, his voice dark with suspicion.

She blinked. "I—"

He shook his head. No doubt this was another of her attempts at seduction. "Leave me alone. I do not require your assistance, nor do I wish it." He stalked off without another word or a backward glance, leaving her standing there.

Isabela bit the inside of her lip, stifling the hurt she couldn't deny that she felt. Who did that lanky, stubborn, beautiful bastard think he was? And why did it bother her so? You couldn't cast all the lures she did without drawing the bait back untasted more than a few times, and she'd long since gotten past taking it personally. But Fenris throwing her help in her face stung. 

She stormed into the inn, where Varric and Hawke were relaxing by the fire with cups of the local spiced grape juice.

"Come and join us, Isabela," Hawke called out.

"This stuff isn't bad," Varric said, taking another experimental sip.

"You may want to go check on your elf," Isabela said, with one boot on the stairs to the second floor. "Tevinter slavers ambushed him in the stable. Oghren and I took care of it, but I think he was injured." Let him escape Hawke's ministrations, she thought. Hawke rarely put up with that nonsense from any of them, although she generally let Fenris go without a reliance on Anders's magic for healing. 

Isabela didn't bother to knock on the mage's door. She kicked it open, the lock splintering, and with a swift glance to determine his location, threw her daggers, neatly pinning his arms to the wall by his coat sleeves.

"What are you doing?" Anders asked as she grabbed a chair and shoved it against the door in place of the broken lock.

"I want you," she said bluntly, "and no spirit of the Fade is going to stop me from having you."

"Wait, why? I don't think this is a good idea," Anders protested. She could practically hear his heart pounding as she crossed the room, ripping open his shirt as she sank onto his lap. He struggled against the knives holding his coat, but she had thrown well, and the wooden walls held. 

Isabela slid her hands into the tear in his shirt, stroking the firm, warm skin there. "Can Justice come out and play?" she asked, shifting backward on his lap so she could unfasten the buttons on his trousers. "Mm," she said, pulling his semi-hard length out of his pants and stroking it. "Justice is large."

"That is not Justice!" Anders protested, but he moaned, too, and couldn't resist thrusting himself into her skilled hands. "That is a perversion of Justice!"

On her knees in front of him now, she looked up with a wicked grin. "Why, as a matter of fact, it is. But are you really going to complain?" And he couldn't, not with her warm, wet mouth closing over him and her tongue dancing along his hardening flesh.

The crackling blue light began to flash around him, and Justice's voice intoned harshly. "Mages are downtrodden enough. Leave this one alone! Cease to play with his foolish flesh!"

Isabela was unperturbed. She focused on the very tip, swirling her tongue around. "Should I? Can't you feel this, Justice?" She took the whole length in her mouth, sucking, and he moaned again. It was hard to tell whose voice made the sound. "Shouldn't you focus on what mages want justice for, instead of simply spouting rhetoric?" Isabela stripped off her tunic, climbing onto his lap and letting her large breasts dangle in front of him. His face contorted, desire and frustration and outrage and curiosity flashing across it in a nearly comical way. 

Bending slightly, she let her soft breasts brush his throbbing erection, eliciting strangled moans in both voices. 

"Please," he gasped. "Isabela."

"Hm." She smiled in triumph, viciously shoving the image of Fenris's pain-filled face away from her as she sank down on Anders's hardness, letting him fill her. She rocked back and forth, enjoying the struggles he made as he tried to free his hands to touch her, and reveling in the gasps and moans that came from him. It quickly became clear to Isabela that her peak was going to elude her, so she would take her pleasure from bringing him to his. She moved her hips steadily, long, slow rises and deep falls, until Anders's face flushed, his eyes closing, and he cried out, jerking his hips against her.

He slumped against the wall, panting, the blue light gone, and Isabela looked at him with predatory delight. 

The door opened behind them, the chair she'd shoved against it scraping along the floor.

"Rivaini, really? You could at least have opened the door like a normal person," Varric complained. "I have to sleep here, you know."

She stood up, running her hands over her body and lifting her breasts enticingly. "Jealous, Varric?"

"You've clearly never seen Bianca when I take her apart." 

"Some day I'm going to get you alone and then we'll see how your crossbow stacks up," Isabela promised. She pulled her tunic back on and yanked her knives out of the wall. Anders grunted, shaking his hands as the blood rushed back into them. "He's all yours," she said to Varric.

As she left the room, she heard Anders say, "I don't know what I did to deserve all this, but I wish they'd give me some warning."

Varric's reply was amused. "I don't think you have to worry about that from now on, Blondie."

Isabela smiled, but her eyes were drawn to the door down the hall. She could just make out the low rumble of Fenris's voice and Hawke's, slightly higher. For a moment she thought of getting righteously drunk and giving a tumble to every man in town, but the idea made her feel ill. Instead she ran from the inn out into the dark Orlesian night, longing for the carefree salt breezes of the ocean.


	15. Crocodile Rock

No one was sorry to leave Ghislain the next morning. In contrast to the gloom that had hung over them on their arrival, their departure was heralded by a warm, sunny day, and even the horses were energetic and refreshed. Fenris held his horse to the back in a slow walk. His broken rib was bandaged tightly, but the jolting motion of a trotting horse still hurt. 

Fergus wondered what the fuss was, and why Hawke put up with the elf's stubborn refusal to accept magical healing. He sympathized, he supposed, with the plight of a former slave who had seen much of the worst magic had to offer, but to reject magic's use as a tool? To suffer and put himself at a disadvantage in a fight because of it? Fergus found that decision inexplicable. He nudged his horse next to Anders's. "Couldn't you just heal him, zap!, and be done with it?"

"'Zap'? Is that really how you think it works? I'm not a machine," the mage said, affronted. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Fenris's ramrod-straight figure. "If he wants healing, he has to ask for it."

"Really?"

"It's only because of Hawke that I'll agree to heal that bastard at all," Anders said grimly. "If he insists on suffering, let him."

Fergus rolled his eyes, but he let his horse pull ahead of Anders's, not wanting to get in the middle of what was obviously a long-standing argument. He caught up with Varric, who had his map spread open over the horse's neck in front of him. 

"Here we go, Cousland," the dwarf said. "The northern edge of the Nahashin Marshes." He frowned at the map, steadying the horse with his knees. "It might have been better to go even farther north, to Andoral's Reach, maybe, and skip the marshes altogether, but that would have been farther out of the way. Still, I hope we don't get too bogged down."

The ground beneath the horses' hooves was already damp, and Fergus shared the dwarf's foreboding. He twisted the ring on his finger, the warmth radiating from it familiar by now. "I'd rather risk the marsh," he said. "I've taken too long already."

Varric had no reply for that. He folded the map, stowing it carefully away inside his coat. "What is it you expect to find in the wilderness, exactly?" the dwarf asked.

"My brother," Fergus said shortly. He'd been wondering when Varric would get around to putting that wonderful listening ear and sympathetic manner to use in order to ferret out the true purpose of the trip. Well, good luck to him, Fergus thought. Those answers would be hard to get when Fergus himself didn't know what to expect.

"Just that? Not much of a story there, if you ask me. Certainly not one worthy of the Hero of Ferelden."

"Wulfric never thought of himself that way."

"Hawke doesn't think of herself as Champion of Kirkwall, either, but the title exists for a reason. Because people need someone to believe in, someone they think is bigger and stronger and tougher and better than themselves."

They were deeper in the marsh now, pools of water alternating with thick growths of grasses. There was no road, not even a path, just more grasses and water as far as the eye could see. The horses picked their way along carefully; even the 'dry' land sucked at their hooves.

"You said this was the less marshy part?" Fergus asked.

Varric shrugged. "Depends on your point of view, I guess. I wouldn't want to see the more marshy part, though."

There was a splash in a pool to their right. Fergus could hear the sounds of hands slapping dagger hilts behind him, the entire party on edge. They all relaxed when they saw the harmless family of ducks that paddled across the pool and out of sight among the reeds. 

"You're a little jumpy, aren't you?" Fergus asked Isabela as her horse pulled even with his.

"This is just ... wrong," she said, looking out over the expanse of water and grass. "Water. Water everywhere! And not a boat to sail."

Fergus grinned. He was about to comment further when Hawke's voice came from behind him. 

"On your right. Watch your horses!"

He looked in the direction she indicated and saw nothing.

"There it is," Isabela said quietly. Fergus followed the direction of her gaze and saw a pair of eyes just at the surface of the water, the body submerged beneath it.

"What is it?" Varric asked.

"It's a crocodile," Hawke said. "Don't shoot it; you'll just make it angry. No, Varric," she added, noticing that the dwarf was unslinging Bianca. "Even Bianca can't fire fast enough to slow one of those down. When they get going, they're fast."

"What do we do, then?" Anders asked. "Magic?"

"If it attacks, magic will be our best bet to subdue it. For now, we keep moving, very slowly, very quietly, and hope it doesn't attack."

It was strange advice to Fergus's ears, to walk in the gaze of your enemy and not make a move to defend yourself, but Hawke sounded very sure of herself, and he had promised to be led by her counsel. They held their horses to a slow walk. 

The creature lurking beneath the water's surface didn't move, but its unblinking eyes followed the party's passage. Fergus held his breath waiting for the strike, but it never came. At last they were past that little pool, and there was a collective sigh of relief. It wasn't often that any creature caused that much tension in a party of such tested combatants.

Fergus dropped back to ride beside Hawke. "What was that?"

"They call them crocodiles. They're giant lizards that live in the waters of marshes such as this one, with hides so thick ordinary blades are useless against them."

He frowned at her. "How do you know about them? Are they common near Kirkwall?"

She smiled. "No, but they are in the depths of the Korcari Wilds. We lived for a time in a village in the Southron Hills, a very small village on the edge of nowhere, but it was close to the Wilds. I was around ten when we moved there, and I used to go on hunting trips by myself."

"I can't imagine being allowed to go anywhere by myself at that age—as the heir to the Teyrnir, I was constantly supervised. Encouraged to be independent within the boundaries of that supervision, of course, but when I went camping it was as part of a large party with tents and other conveniences."

"I take it this is as rustic, and alone, as you've ever been?"

Fergus shook his head. "You forget that I spent the Blight in a Chasind hut. I learned a lot from them about self-sufficiency and making do. If I were ever to have a child again, I would hope to raise him, or her, with more freedom and independence than I had." He remembered guiltily that Wulfric had spent more time playing with Oren than he had. He'd felt bowed down by the cares of his position and had told himself there would always be time later. But later never came. Fergus swallowed the bitterness of unshed tears, not wanting to go any farther down that road right now. "So you've fought crocodiles before?"

"I've watched the Chasind tribes of the lower Wilds do it. Very, very carefully," Jennie replied. If she'd noticed his detour into nostalgia, she didn't mention it. "Since arrows can't pierce the hide, the Chasind resort to snares to capture the creatures. You have to watch the tail, which is very strong. I saw a crocodile crush a warrior's ribs with one blow of its tail once. That reminds me." She turned in her saddle. "Fenris, we need you well. You understand?"

The elf's eyes narrowed, but he gave a quick small nod.

Jennie turned to the mage. "Anders, could you, please?"

Anders sighed and turned his horse to ride alongside Fenris. Gripping the horse's sides with his knees, he laid his hands on the warrior's chest. It was obvious the mage was making as big a production of this as he could.

Fenris grimaced. "Get on with it."

"Why now?" Fergus asked. "If it was all right to leave the rib broken before, that is," he added, unable to resist the implied censure.

"If we're facing crocodiles, Fenris's abilities are of even greater importance," Jennie said, speaking loudly enough for the elf to hear her, and ignoring the underlying criticism. "Because my arrows, as well as the swords and daggers, are all but useless against them, we'll be relying on Anders's magic and Fenris's ability to phase through solid objects if we run into any more of those things. Which I suspect we will." She looked around at the still pools and the waving grass. "Where there's one, there's more. I just hope we don't run into some kind of nest."

"Yes, let's avoid that at all costs," Varric called back from his position at the front. He and Zevran were riding together, both of them carefully watching the ground and the surrounding grasslands.

"Where is your spirit of adventure, my diminutive friend?" Zev asked.

"You've got it all wrong, Flash. I don't live the adventures, I just write about them. I leave the getting into danger part to Hawke whenever possible."

"And don't think I haven't noticed," Jennie called. She was smiling and relaxed, and Fergus couldn't help but notice how attractive she was without the nervous look that characterized her interactions with him so often. 

He wanted to keep her talking while she was in this mood. "How long did you live in the Southron Hills?"

Jennie frowned thoughtfully. "Four years? From when I was around ten, until I was fourteen, I think. That's when Bethany healed the neighbor boy's broken arm. He had a conniption, ran off to cry for his mother, and we packed up and left."

"Because she healed him?"

"Because she was a mage. He and his family would have preferred the broken arm," Jennie said. 

Without thinking, Fergus said, "Having met Bethany, I wouldn't have expected her to have embraced the healing arts."

Jennie snorted. "That was Father's doing. He thought if he channeled her magic into healing, then her inadvertent usage of it would be less objectionable to others. As it turns out, magical healing is intrusive and personal enough that people feel almost violated when it happens to them without their permission or knowledge." Jennie smiled bitterly. "Not to mention that healing wasn't exactly Bethany's strong suit, so she didn't do it very well. But Father thought it suited her sweet and gentle personality."

"Healers are sweet and gentle?" Fergus resisted the urge to glance back at Anders.

"Well, no, not always," Jennie replied, with a sidelong look and a grin that said she knew what he was really saying. "But I do think they share a certain—"

Whatever she was going to say was lost in Zev's low "Hawke," and a matching call from Fenris at the back. Both men were looking pointedly into the water, where several pairs of nearly submerged eyes lurked.

Jennie looked around quickly to see if there was a safe route, but they were surrounded by muddy pools, the crocodiles' natural habitat.

"Don't move," Jennie said. "Fenris, Anders, the two of you are our best bet—Anders, you hold them by magic, Fenris, you take them out with your lyrium powers." Her gaze swept the landscape again. "Fergus, Isabela, the two of you collect the horses and get them over to that hillock over there while we distract the crocodiles. Varric, cover them. The horses are the most vulnerable to this attack. Zev, you know about poisons, right?"

"Of course."

"Good," Jennie said. "Poison might work on them. Acid, particularly. Things to watch for—their tails are powerful, and their teeth are sharp. They want to grab you and drag you under the water, so do your best to avoid that."

"Maybe if we ask them nicely," Anders muttered.

"Talking crocodiles, Blondie? Even I never made up something that outlandish," Varric said.

"Can we focus, please?" Hawke asked, but she didn't sound overly annoyed. Fergus had learned by now, as she must have long ago, that quips and asides were a coping mechanism for Hawke's crew. She looked at Fergus now, the reins of her horse held out. "Here, take these." Nimbly, she shifted from her horse to Anders's behind her. Fergus began walking both horses slowly toward the hillock Hawke had pointed out. As Fenris's horse moved up beside him, Zev performed the same maneuver, handing his reins to Varric.

"Until we meet again," he said to the dwarf, blowing him a kiss. And then, seamlessly, to Fenris, he said, "What a remarkably comfortable position this is. Perhaps we could try it again without the large hairy animal beneath us?"

The other elf grunted, frowning, and shifted forward in the saddle to get away from the press of Zev's body. Varric followed Fergus with Zev's horse in tow. 

In the water, a pair of eyes disappeared, and a ripple of water marked the animal's movements. 

"Fergus!" Jennie called. He turned around, meeting her blue eyes. "Be careful."

He smiled and nodded, and she turned her gaze back to the water near her. He wondered if it was concern for him, personal concern, he had seen in her eyes, or if she'd have felt the same way about anyone in the party. Foolish to think of such things at all, he chided himself, much less in a moment like this one. He kept the horses moving slowly toward the hillock, recognizing that it represented only a small piece of safety—it was the others who would make it safe by their actions, and he worried for them

Isabela's horse moved between the other two and she took the reins. Anders raised his hands, drawing power between them, and shot a blast of cold into the water. At the same time Jennie and both the elves leaped nimbly off their horses. Anders climbed down more slowly. As soon as his boots hit the calf-deep water, Isabela gathered the reins and with a loud "Heeyah!" dug her heels into her horse's side, drawing all three swiftly away from the gathered crocodiles. Varric had dismounted his own horse and was standing in front of the horses with Bianca leveled at the faint rippling of the water. Fergus could see the crocodile's tail twitching.

Then an arrow sped through the air, bouncing off the crocodile's back. It turned, lashing the water angrily, and sped across the water toward Hawke and the others. 

Isabela had gone around in a wide circle to avoid the crocodile, and she pulled up her horses and dropped nimbly to her feet. "Ugly big things, aren't they?" she said. "I think they'd look much better as boots. I need a new pair."

"Turning tanner now, Rivaini?" Varric asked, keeping Bianca trained on the back of the crocodile.

Across the water, Hawke had produced a long strip of leather. Anders sent another wave of cold through the water, freezing one of the crocodiles. Fenris moved quickly to stand atop it, plunging his glowing hand into its head and removing its brain. Another crocodile was approaching the mage. Hawke ran around him, doing a handspring and landing squarely on the creature's back. It twisted rapidly, trying to dislodge her, but its ponderous body was no match for Hawke's agility. She took the long strip of leather and bound the crocodile's jaws closed. The massive tail twitched, nearly knocking into Zev, who dodged just in time. He threw a flask of acid at the approaching eyes of the third crocodile, while Anders turned his attention to the fourth. A ball of fire climbed into the sky as Anders's spell hit the oncoming crocodile, but it didn't slow its progress. The ponderous jaws opened, the crocodile moving remarkably fast.

"Get out of there," Fergus whispered agitatedly, watching as Jennie leaped off the back of the crocodile with the tied-closed jaw. She ran toward Zev, water spraying up behind her. 

"Hawke knows what she's doing," Varric muttered, but he didn't sound convinced, either. 

The fourth crocodile, shrugging off the spell Anders had tried on him, pursued Fenris across the water. The elf glanced quickly behind him, looking for a tree or any kind of shelter, and then tripped and fell. The crocodile was on him in a moment, grasping the elf's leg in its jaws. Even from a distance, Fergus could see the flare of the lyrium leaping to life along Fenris's arms.

"Fenris!" Hawke called. She left Zev, who was aiming a poison-soaked arrow into the open mouth of the crocodile coming toward him. The assassin stood his ground as the crocodile came closer, holding his bow steady until he was sure of his shot, and then he released it and dove out of the way. The crocodile groaned in pain, turning to pursue him as he ran. 

Hawke sprinted toward the crocodile that was dragging Fenris into deeper water. The elf's arms reached out, grasping at anything that might slow the great beast's progress, and found nothing.

Next to Fenris, Isabela quivered, clearly itching to be doing something. Varric put a hand on her wrist. "Slow down, Rivaini. You won't help the elf by putting yourself in danger, and you'll distract Hawke."

Isabela took a deep breath, but didn't cease fidgeting. 

Zev's crocodile was moving sluggishly, the poison clearly getting to it.

"Might have to get Flash to teach me some of those poisons," Varric muttered. He wasn't any happier than Isabela about being side-lined.

For that matter, Fergus felt pretty helpless himself, watching the others put themselves in danger because of his mission. His heart was lodged firmly in his throat as he watched Jennie launch herself across the water and land squarely on the back of the crocodile. She gripped with her knees while her gloved hands wrapped around either side of the crocodile's jaw, struggling to open it.

"She'll never get those jaws open, not that way," Isabela whispered, her hand over her mouth.

"She'll be dragged under with it before she gives up," Varric said, and Fergus was afraid that was exactly what would happen. 

The poisoned crocodile was floating belly up now, and Zev turned toward the crocodile that was still making for the deeper water with a now-unresisting Fenris in its jaws and Hawke still clinging to its back. 

"Anders!" Zev shouted. 

The mage turned from the last crocodile, which he was killing slowly with jolts of electricity, his eyes practically popping out of his head when he saw the scene across the water. "Switch!" he called, slogging through the water and sending great splashes up on either side of him. It was a good thing Anders had given up robes for pants and boots, Fergus thought.

Zev went the other way, removing a vial from his belt and tossing it at the sluggish crocodile. It burst in a hissing splash of some kind of green liquid, and the blinded crocodile snapped its jaws and twitched its tail. 

"I don't care what Hawke said, I'm helping," Isabela said.

"You'll stay right here," Fergus said. "By the time you got there, it would be too late. Don't put your life in danger, and theirs. We don't know if there are any more of those things out there."

Isabela swallowed hard, but she stayed put. 

The crocodile whose mouth Jennie had tied closed was thrashing violently, churning the water, and Zev tossed an acid vial in its direction, landing it directly on the eyes, which maddened the crocodile even further. Fergus hoped the assassin wasn't going to run out of his entire stock of poisons just in this one battle. Zev nimbly leaped over the flailing tail and thrust a knife deep into the scarred eye socket of the giant beast. It twitched once more and then lay still, and Zev, grimly pleased, used the same tactic on the second.

Anders cast a flurry of cold spells at the fleeing crocodile, just missing Jennie with them, but slowing the crocodile's progress some. Jennie was leaning forward, reaching for Fenris. 

Zev was shouting about stabbing the eyes. Jennie fumbled for the dagger at her belt, trying to maintain her seat on the fleeing crocodile while removing her dagger. Finally she got the blade free, sinking it deep into the crocodile's eye socket. It stopped immediately, but the jaws didn't relax. Jennie removed her dagger from the eye and stuck the blade between the crocodile's jaw, trying to pry them open. Anders reached her side, lifting Fenris's torso out of the water. A faint blue light came from Anders's hands, but nothing happened.

Isabela whimpered and started running, heedless of the soaking her sailcloth tunic was taking. Fergus and Varric climbed quickly onto their horses and led the others over as well, overtaking Isabela on the way. She swung up onto her horse, whispering something in its ear. Soon it had outstripped the rest of them, and Isabela was dropping off its back next to Fenris. 

Anders uncorked a lyrium potion, downing the potent liquid. His face was grim as he bent over Fenris. Isabela sank down into the water, holding Fenris's limp body against her.

"He's going to hate you for this when he comes to, Rivaini," Varric said as he came up, but his tone was kind. 

"Let him. As long as he does come to." She looked up at Anders with the implied question.

"Get those jaws open," Anders said shortly. 

"Allow me." Varric slid down, opening up a compartment in Bianca's stock and removing a metal wedge and a small but durable-looking hammer. He went to work pounding the wedge into the crocodile's teeth.

Jennie let go, moving her fingers out of Varric's way. She looked utterly exhausted, and Fergus didn't stop to think before helping her stand up and enfolding her in his arms. For once she didn't pull away—she rested her head on his chest, and he could feel her shaking with fear and grief.

Anders continued to pour healing light into Fenris's body, and at last the elf stirred and groaned. Varric broke enough teeth to get the jaw open, prying out Fenris's leg. It looked horrible, mangled and ripped. Anders drew in his breath at the sight of it, and then went back to work, his entire focus on knitting the crushed bone and torn flesh and muscle back together.

Fenris opened his eyes, looking up into Isabela's face. Fergus could see relief in the elf's green eyes before they shuttered in pain and he began to fight to pull away.

"Trust me, elf, you don't want to see this," Varric said.

"Hold still," Isabela commanded, tightening her grip. Fenris stopped struggling, but Fergus could see the tension in him.

Zev came up behind them, his browned hand coming to rest on Varric's shoulder. The dwarf looked up at him, but whatever remark he had been going to make died on his lips, and he let the elf's hand stay where it was.

At last, a good hour and several lyrium potions later, a drawn and wearied Anders pronounced that Fenris's leg was as good as he could make it. "Go easy on it for a few days, you should be back to full strength soon."

Fenris got to his feet, shrugging off Isabela's hands. "Thanks," he muttered gruffly, but without being reminded or prodded to do so. Fergus thought that seemed like progress.

Behind them they heard a splashing sound, and all of them turned with expressions of alarm to see Oghren on his horse, with three small crocodiles stacked behind his saddle. All were beheaded and neatly trussed up. The red-haired dwarf looked at them all with surprise. "What'd I miss?"


	16. Can't Fight This Feeling

The procession was a slow one the next few days. The whole party were on the lookout for more crocodiles, and there was a general agreement to take their time in order to let Fenris's leg heal. The elf avoided all of them, keeping to himself under an almost visible cloud of doom. Anders, on the other hand, looked more cheerful than Fergus had seen him this trip, riding alongside Isabela and exchanging surprisingly risque quips and jokes with her. Fergus remembered that Anders had been a good friend to Wulfric, who had described the mage as a hopeless womanizer and quite the joker. So far Fergus had seen little of that good humor, and then only when Anders and Oghren were together. He was glad to see the mage in good spirits today, but cautious, as well. Something felt off about the banter.

For her part, Isabela was trying too hard. Her jokes were a little too loud, her innuendoes too pointed. Fenris showed no indication that he was paying attention to anything she said. Jennie rode in the elf's vicinity for a while and then drifted forward to ride with Varric. Fergus noticed that Zev was shifting his position in the line, very slowly, until he was riding near Fenris. He didn't speak, however, and the silence of his presence seemed acceptable to Fenris.

Fergus was surprisingly affected by the fight with the crocodiles. His enforced inactivity had been hard to maintain, even though he'd known at the time it was the right thing to do. He'd never before run head-on into a situation in which he was so utterly helpless; even the loss of his family was something he was sure he could have prevented, had he been there, sword at the ready. He counted on his physical prowess, on his quick wits, on his training and know-how, to get him through anything he had to face ... It had never occurred to him that he might end up in a place where none of those meant anything. Jennie had known just what to do; if it had been up to him, they'd have attacked the crocodiles head-on, with their ineffectual blades, and they might have lost people. They probably would have lost people, if he was going to be honest with himself.

Oghren's horse drew next to his. "Nice little scrap the other day, eh?"

"Nice? Scrap? Not the words I would've used. How did you know what to do with the ones you killed?" he asked. He'd been impressed by Oghren's apparent ease with the crocodiles. 

The dwarf grunted. "Got somethin' like 'em in the Deep Roads. Big suckers, but ya hit 'em often enough and hard enough, their heads fall off like anything else's." He grinned, showing stained teeth. "'Sides, it's harder to grab a dwarf an' pull 'im over. Elf there, he's easy. Too skinny to stand up against 'em." He shifted his horse closer to Fergus's. "Say."

"What?"

"Ya think, after this is over, there might be ... a little somethin' in it for me?"

Fergus's eyebrows flew up. He didn't mind paying the dwarf, but it was a surprising request.

"I don't mean money," Oghren assured him. "Just ... maybe a paper, or a medal, or somethin' I could show Felsi and Little Ricky, so's they know I didn't leave 'em just for the fun of it."

"Oh. Yes, I'm sure something like that can be arranged."

"Eh. Thanks." The dwarf's cheeks appeared ruddier than usual, and he dug his heels into his horse's sides, causing it to leap forward. Oghren hung onto the horn of the saddle, shouting, "Whoa, horsie!" as it moved.

"Think he's ever going to get the hang of it?" Anders asked from behind Fergus. 

"Hard to tell. Maybe by the time we get back home."

"Home," Anders murmured quietly, but he didn't elaborate.

Fergus thought of what that word must mean to all of them. He and Hawke technically had homes, but they were empty of the life and love that gave the word meaning. Varric lived in a tavern; Anders worked himself to exhaustion in a squalid clinic; Oghren lived with the Grey Wardens pining for the family he didn't know how to hold onto; Fenris squatted in a crumbling mansion. Isabela and Zev had no home bases, unless you counted their devotion to Hawke and Wulfric, respectively. They were a sad bunch of refugees, really, Fergus realized, only they didn't know what they were fleeing from or where they were running to.

"Don't look now, but I think we're out of the marsh," Jennie said, pulling her horse alongside Fergus's. "According to Varric, we should have a fairly straight shot through to the Tirashan from here."

"Maker be praised," Fergus said.

"Why are you praising the Maker for my map's accuracy?" Varric called. 

"Should I praise the Stone instead?"

"Sod the Stone. And the Maker, too. I'm a self-made man, and my accomplishments are my own."

"All hail Varric, ruler of the universe," Hawke said.

"I'd do better than the universe rulers we have now," Varric replied. Since none of them were particularly devout Andrastians, the remark went unanswered. Varric shrugged cheerfully. "Silence implies assent."

"What do you think about stopping for the night soon?" Jennie asked Fergus quietly, so the others wouldn't hear. "I think we're all ready for dry ground under our feet after the marsh. And Fenris would die rather than admit it, but he's still suffering pretty badly." 

Fergus twisted the ring around on his finger. He thought the heat it gave off was intensifying as they got closer to where he assumed his brother was, but it was hard to tell, he was so used to the feeling of it there. He hated to waste the time, but Jennie was right. They were all exhausted, and Fenris was clearly still in pain. "Let's give it another hour, get on solid ground, and then take the rest of the afternoon off."

"Sounds like a plan." Jennie smiled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. 

The usual efficiency of camp set-up was a bit thrown off because Anders refused to let Fenris help with any of the strenuous tasks. The elf sat near Zevran, awkwardly peeling some rather rubbery carrots and fuming at his enforced inactivity. 

"My friend, it is necessary to heal. I know that the domestic arts are not your usual skillset, but from what I hear of the mansion you live in, you could use the practice." The assassin smiled at his fellow elf.

Fenris grunted. "You are kind to patronize me in my extremity."

"Patronize?" Zev asked, his brown eyes resting on the bent head. "I was speaking in all sincerity. I do not patronize."

The assassin's tone was steely, and Fenris was silent for a moment. He nearly sliced off the tip of his finger with the carrot peel. "Then I apologize. I am ... unused to being treated with ..."

"Friendliness?"

"Solicitude."

Zev grinned. "My friend, when I attempt to solicit you, it will not be in the midst of a busy camp. It will be someplace very ... dark. And private. And you will not feel patronized in the slightest, I assure you. You will feel very desired."

Fenris cleared his throat, tossing a handful of unevenly chopped carrot pieces, and not a few fronds of greenery, into the pot. He stood up, limping only a little as he stalked off into the woods.

"Too much, Flash," Varric commented. "Broody doesn't take well to being pushed."

"Hm. Perhaps you are right," Zev said, but he sounded unconvinced. He glanced at Varric. "What of you? Do you enjoy being pushed?"

Varric smiled. "'Enjoy' might not be the right word, but I have a far greater tolerance for it. On the other hand, there's a decent chance that if you push Broody, he might kiss you instead of killing you. Where I'm concerned, only one of those options is available." His habitually easygoing expression had disappeared, and his brown eyes held no humor.

Zev was undaunted, however. He showed his teeth in a wolfish smile. "Do not tempt me. I take a lot of killing—you may ask our beautiful Warden just how much when we find him."

"Shouldn't be much longer for that," Varric said.

Growing serious, Zev shook his head. "Wulfric and Morrigan together ... they will not be easy to find or approach. I very much fear our troubles are just beginning." 

"I doubt we're alone, either," Isabela said suddenly, coming out from behind the tent she'd just finished setting up.

"An excellent point," Zev said.

"Who do you think it is?" Isabela asked, hunkering down near the fire and giving an appreciative sniff at the aroma of the stew Zev was stirring. "Wardens? Chantry?"

"Both," Varric said decidedly.

"Then what'd we do all that fancy shufflin' around for?" Oghren asked. They'd all nearly forgotten he was there, swigging something out of a giant flask covered in gaudy scrollwork.

Varric, Zev, and Isabela exchanged glances and shrugs. "It was better than nothing," Varric said at last. "Upped the chance of losing them along the way. Besides, cutting across the top edge of the Nahashin Marshes was better than trying to cross the center. Me, I'm just as glad to avoid fighting the granddaddy crocodile."

"'Grand-daddy?'" Zev repeated, chuckling.

"Oh, you know he's out there, just waiting to take bites out of unwary travelers. Matter of fact, that might be my next story," Varric said thoughtfully.

Oghren grunted, taking another long swallow from his flask. "Want some?" He held it out. The others exchanged another set of glances and shrugs, and Isabela reached for the flask. 

"Hit me."

Fergus could hear the laughter from the camp, the sound rising, and it occurred to him that he should go tell them to be quiet. After all, they were on the edge of known civilization. Who could tell what might be lurking in the darkness ahead of them, much less behind them? It was best not to call attention to themselves. He started to return to the camp with the intention of telling them so, but nearly ran into Jennie, who was coming up behind him.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!" he said.

"Sorry. It's not intentional—I spent a lifetime learning to walk so quietly no one would hear me pass." 

Another burst of laughter came from the fireside, and Fergus glanced anxiously that way.

"Let them go," Jennie said. "They need this."

"They could be drawing attention to us."

She chuckled. "Eight horses, all our gear, the campfire, the smell of food ... Oghren. Trust me, if there's anyone out there, they already know we're here. And all those people making the noise can pretty much handle anything that drops in on them."

"Except crocodiles."

Jennie laughed outright at that. It was a warm, rich sound and Fergus found himself smiling back. "They did fine against those, too. If Fenris hadn't tripped, we'd have gotten away injury-free. What is it that Zev says, we are 'ridiculously awesome'?"

"You seem full of confidence tonight."

That sobered her, and she sighed. "I'm not, really, no more than they are. We're all worried about what's ahead, what we're going to find, who's following us. Not to mention the inner demons we all carry along."

Her voice had dropped, low and husky, and Fergus found that inexplicable attraction rising in him again. "What are your demons, Jennie?" 

"Same ones anyone has, I suppose," she said, striving for a light tone, but he didn't miss the way she shifted away from him, as if she had heard what he was thinking and was rejecting it. The movement shouldn't have stung; he shouldn't have been thinking what he was; but the thoughts were there and the movement bothered him. She went on, "I doubt my skills and abilities, I distrust people's feelings for me, I—"

What had come over him, Fergus had no idea, but here in the dark, warm outskirts of the forest in the presence of this confusing, distracting, enticing woman, he felt a hunger that hadn't stirred in him since his wife was killed. Even the resistance in Jennie's body as he reached for her arm and pulled her close didn't cool the fever that had taken him. Her words stopped, her blue eyes huge in her face as she stared at him. Fergus searched her eyes, looking for any sign that she welcomed his touch, but all he saw was trepidation. "Don't be frightened," he whispered. He kept his arms around her, feeling the deceptive fragility of her body as she held herself stiffly in his embrace. Fergus dipped his head, sure that somewhere in her he felt a response, somewhere so deep down that she couldn't even admit it to herself. Or was he just deluding himself? So close to the taste of her, he couldn't tell the difference. 

His lips claimed hers. Jennie gave a shocked gasp, her lips parting. Her hands came up between them, splaying across his chest, pressing against him. Fergus deepened the kiss, his tongue lightly flicking against the corner of her mouth. For a second he thought he felt her lean against him, the faintest returned pressure of her lips.

And then Jennie tore her mouth away from his, pushing him away with all her strength. "Fergus, no!"

"I'm sorry," he said, dropping his arms. "I thought—"

"You thought wrong," said a voice in the darkness, and Anders stepped out, his dark eyes blazing at Fergus. "She's not interested. Leave her alone."

"Anders," Jennie said. "I can handle this."

Fergus stepped toward the mage. "What business is it of yours?"

"I saw it all. She was trying to push you away, you bully. Just because you're a noble, don't think you can just take what you want!"

"Anders!" Jennie said. "Stop." She turned to Fergus. "I know you didn't mean any harm, but I'm ... That's ... I'm sorry. Could you please leave us now?"

He didn't want to. What he wanted to do was stay and talk to her and find out why she was so determined not to be touched, to know once and for all if she had actually begun to return his kiss, but he couldn't argue with her. Not after what happened, and not in front of the mage. "Please accept my apology," he said, bending in a bow, before turning away and leaving them alone.


	17. I Gotta Feeling

Jennie dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her eyes. The gesture was as much a delaying tactic as a stress relief; she wanted to gain some space between the moment she'd experienced with Fergus and whatever Anders's reaction to it would be. Despite the hints Isabela had been dropping and the occasional look she'd caught in Fergus's eyes, Jennie hadn't really believed he was attracted to her. At least, certainly not in any way an honorable man like Fergus would choose to act on. Jennie wasn't entirely naive—she'd heard enough to know that there were certain kinds of lust that were undeniable, that would make even honorable men slaves to their body's desires. But she had never been the object of such lust, nor had she ever expected to be. And now she was confused—did he want to sleep with her? Did he ... care for her? 

She couldn't even begin to consider what her feelings might be in return. That she could still feel the imprint of his lips on hers was undeniable. She enjoyed being with him, and his smiles coaxed answering smiles out of her. But without knowing what it was that he wanted, Jennie was at sea. She didn't know what to expect, or how to respond, or ... She shook herself. There was no time for this right now, not with Anders hovering and no doubt getting entirely the wrong impression from her distress. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, really."

"I would never have expected the great Fergus Cousland to stoop to forcing himself on a woman," Anders said. 

"He wasn't forcing himself on me," Jennie protested. She felt shy; she didn't really want to talk about this with Anders, or anyone. "He—I mean, I ..." 

"That wasn't what it looked like to me." Anders's cool fingers captured Jennie's chin, and he looked down into her face. "I would never do that to you."

"Anders."

"No, don't stop me. I've wanted to say this for a long time now; I need to say it. None of the others mean anything to me. It's you I dream of, you I ache for. Jennie—"

Her name on his lips sounded strange; it had always been "Hawke" before. "Anders, no."

"What?"

"No. I mean, I'm sorry, but ... this isn't the right time." She'd regret that lie of omission later, Jennie knew. But he looked so crestfallen that she didn't have the heart to tell him she wasn't interested. What woman could be? she thought. No one could measure up to Justice's exacting standards, and no one could support the cause of mages strongly enough. Certainly Jennie didn't. She wanted mages to have the freedom to live their own lives, and not to have to be locked up and made Tranquil, but she wasn't prepared to kill anyone over it, or to be killed, and Anders didn't seem able to accept anything less than that.

He withdrew his hand. "I understand. Later ... after we're back in Kirkwall, may I speak with you again?"

"Yes, definitely." She meant that it would be better to talk then, when they had more time and more privacy, but from the encouraged, self-satisfied look on his face, she hadn't managed to convey that properly. "Anders, don't— I'm not exactly ... I haven't given much thought to this sort of thing," she said hastily.

"No, of course not. Your time in Kirkwall hasn't exactly lent itself—then again, whose has?" He smiled at her, one of his rare real smiles.

Jennie nodded, relieved. "Exactly. I need time to think about what I want."

"Understood." 

"Is there—did you come out here for a reason?" 

"Actually, yes. I felt something." Seeing her frown, he added, "It's a Grey Warden thing; we can sense each other, the way we can sense the darkspawn."

"So are you saying there are darkspawn approaching?" Jennie asked in alarm.

"No, I don't think so. I do think there are Grey Wardens nearby."

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you mean the Hero of Ferelden."

Anders shook his head. "No, I know what Wulfric feels like; this is different."

"Can you tell how many, or how far away they are?"

"They're maybe half a day's travel behind us, probably less. Four or five of them, at a guess?"

"Oghren would be able to tell, too, wouldn't he?"

"Sure, if he's sober enough to give us a straight answer." Anders grinned. "That's never something you want to count on."

"Let's go talk to him now, before that party gets any more raucous, then," Jennie said.

The campfire group was passing around a bottle, unearthed from someone's belongings. Everyone was there except for Fergus and Fenris. Varric caught Jennie's eye as she came into the campsite, and she was relieved to see that he, at least, had kept his imbibing to a minimum. "Cousland's in his tent; no sign of Broody."

"Thanks." Jennie and Anders went over to Oghren, who was sitting, very quietly for him, on a stump away from the others and guzzling liquid out of his flask as though it might be his last drink.

"Yeah?"

"Anders tells me he can feel that there are Wardens following us," Jennie said. 

"He can? Huh." Oghren tipped the flask back farther.

"You can't feel any?"

"Uh ... what?" He blinked up at her fuzzily.

"Grey Wardens. Sensing each other," Anders said. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me? What's the matter with you, jabberin' about Grey Wardens. You left the Wardens, remember?"

"Yes, but, I didn't leave the taint."

"Taint. Taint. Taint ..." Oghren said sadly. He tipped the flask upside down; nothing came out. "Sodding taint." He got up, walking unsteadily off into the woods.

Jennie and Anders looked at each other helplessly. "Well, that didn't get us anywhere," she said.

"No; I really thought he was doing better than that. I haven't heard him that out of it since ... well, since before he and Felsi made up."

"Maybe that's it, then—do you think he's still brooding about Felsi leaving him and taking their baby to Orzammar?"

"He must be, but this is worse than it's been the whole trip."

Jennie stared off into the darkness in the direction Oghren had gone, and at last shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing to be done for him until he knows what he wants. Besides, we have bigger concerns." She sighed. "It has to be Bethany following us."

"That seems logical," Anders agreed. 

"Then I say we deal with her tomorrow. We'll go back and meet them on their way."

Anders frowned. "Won't they just move farther away, if they sense us coming?"

Jennie smiled. "Not all of us are Grey Wardens; now that we know they're there, Zev and Isabela can track them." She looked over at the fire. "Let's get some stew before those ruffians at the fire burn it. Or eat it all."

"Good plan."

Zev, Isabela, and Varric were trading tall tales around the fire. Jennie and Anders got themselves some food and sat down to listen. Eventually Fenris and Oghren came back to the fire, and Fergus emerged from his tent, choosing a seat opposite the fire from Jennie. She tried to focus on her meal and listen to the stories, but her eyes kept lifting and meeting Fergus's intense gaze. She shivered, the food suddenly tasteless in her mouth, and put the bowl aside. Anders glanced from her to Fergus and back and frowned, but Jennie shook her head at him sharply. She didn't need his assistance, and didn't like what his protectiveness was implying. 

Quietly, she got all their attention, making them aware of the suspicions she and Anders had and the plan for the morning. Most faces were lit with the joy of combat—particularly Fenris's. He appeared to feel that he had embarrassed himself with the crocodiles and was looking forward to the chance to redeem himself. Oghren, surprisingly, did not look pleased at all. Jennie assumed some of Bethany's companions were likely to be Oghren's friends, but she watched him as he excused himself. Something was troubling about the dwarf's behavior.

Jennie herself wasn't any too excited about having to deal with, and quite possibly having to fight, her sister. It wasn't that she thought Bethany could win—Jennie had always pulled her punches when sparring with Bethany in order to avoid their mother's inevitable cry of "Jennie, be careful! She's so delicate!" as long as possible, and she knew most of Bethany's magics. But the idea of lifting a hand against her sister in earnest didn't sit quite right with Jennie. She could only hope that when they did meet up with the Grey Wardens Bethany would be willing to talk instead of fight. 

Of course, Bethany would never consent to being sent home empty-handed. Jennie groaned, rubbing her forehead. There just didn't seem to be any way out of this mess. She got up, cutting off the questions from the concerned faces around her. "I'm going to bed. Call me when it's my watch?" she asked, looking at Fenris, who had the watch just before hers tonight. He nodded briefly, and Jennie turned away from the campfire. From her tent she could hear the softly spoken remarks and almost hear the unspoken questions that passed between the more perceptive members of the party, and she groaned quietly, burying her face in her pillow. 

As the group around the fire began to break up, various members heading for their tents, Jennie sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening to the sounds of the night around them. Anders and Varric were on watch, exchanging comments here and there as they passed each other in their patrol of the camp's perimeter. 

Alone at last with no conversations to distract her, Jennie dropped her head onto her knees and relived the kiss. She didn't have to try hard to feel the touch of Fergus's tongue against her lips, to warm clear through at the memory of being caught in his arms. She'd been taken by surprise, shocked that the attraction she'd thought she had seen in his eyes was real, and afraid to trust him. Or herself. But as much as his embrace had unnerved her, she had longed to melt into it, to rest against him, to be able to let go.

Anders's appearance had been a mixed blessing. It had kept Jennie from yielding to the temptation to kiss Fergus again, to see if he really meant it ... but it had also kept her from asking Fergus why he'd done it. And now, would such a moment come again? If it did, would she have the courage to bring the topic up? 

It was almost a relief when she heard someone approach the outside of her tent. 

"Hawke." It was Fenris's voice, but far too early for either of their watches.

"Come in."

He stepped into the tent. "I am concerned about your intention to meet with the Grey Wardens who are following us tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Mm. At first, I was in support of the idea, but on further consideration ..."

"Out with it," Jennie snapped when he appeared unsure of how to continue.

"I wondered what you intend to do with your sister."

Jennie shook her head. "I don't know."

"May I submit that there is little you can do? And perhaps, indeed, that you would not wish to deter the Grey Wardens further."

"Why not?"

"Has it occurred to you that whatever danger faces the Hero of Ferelden and his family may well be more within the Wardens' purview than ours? And in such an event, it would be wise to have the Grey Wardens where we wish them—behind us, and in easy reach should they be needed."

Jennie raised her eyebrows. She hadn't thought of it that way. "So you think we should just pretend we don't know they're there?"

"Exactly. They cannot be certain if we are aware of their presence, which presents us with an edge. Moreover, I think we both know that the only way to prevent Bethany from reaching her goal, situated as we currently are, would be to kill her, and I do not believe you are ready for such a drastic step."

"No, you're right." Jennie sighed. "You seem to have a very good grasp of the situation."

"The benefit of being an observer rather than an involved party." He hesitated for a moment. "If I may offer another piece of advice?"

"What is it?"

"My impression is that the Teyrn is a good man. I would not judge him too harshly for ... uh ... falling prey to certain ... desires." 

Jennie was certain Fenris was blushing. "Anders really felt the need to share, apparently."

"He did." Fenris said in a tone of disdain. He cleared his throat and, in a softer voice, added, "You deserve to be happy. Punishing yourself the way you do for the things that happened to your family—things that were not your fault—is not healthy. And it would seem to me that the Teyrn knows a few things about that emotion. Perhaps you should speak with him."

She felt intensely uncomfortable with this line of discussion, and was about to order him out of the tent when it occurred to her that she could turn the tables on him. "Speaking of relationships, which is it? Zev, or Isabela?"

"What?" He was clearly startled, taking a step back and bumping into the canvas side of the tent.

"They both seem to be pursuing you rather eagerly. Which do you prefer?"

Fenris cleared his throat. "She—I mean, he—That is to say ..." He let out a long breath. "Neither of them truly understands. My markings, my past, the things that were done—" He broke off.

Jennie was silent for a moment, respecting the pain he couldn't give words to. "It seems to me," she said at last, "that neither Zev nor Isabela could have gotten where they are without having some experience with torture, and regret, and pain. Inner and outer. You should give them a chance."

"I will ... consider it," he said, but his tone sounded as though he said it just to pacify her. "Shall I inform everyone that tomorrow's plans have changed, that we are to move out as normal, pretending the Wardens are not there?"

"Yes, please do. Tell Anders if he has any trouble with the idea to talk to me—but not until morning."

"As you say." Fenris ducked his head and stepped out of the tent, leaving Jennie alone with her troubled thoughts.


	18. Welcome to the Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of the Tirashan was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Lost World._

There was barely suppressed excitement in the group as they set out the next morning. The suspected presence of the Grey Wardens behind them spurred them on, as did the changing terrain they were crossing. Now that they were out of the swamp, they were riding into an area filled with lush greenery. Brightly colored birds burst out of the trees as they passed, and strange wild noises surrounded them.

It all reminded Jennie of a younger, more vibrant version of the Korcari Wilds. In the Wilds, everything was moss-covered and drab, the colors dull brown and dark green. Here the greens were vivid and the growth was new, tangling around the trees and hanging in great ropy vines. Adrenaline surged in her veins and she leaned forward, urging the horse on faster, eager to see more of what lay ahead.

A strong brown hand laid hold of her reins. "Hold up there, sweet thing," Isabela said, although the almost feral look on the pirate's face said that she, too, felt the energy of this place in her blood. "No point getting too far ahead and getting ourselves in trouble, now, is there?"

"I never would have imagined you as the voice of caution," Jennie said.

"Caution, no. Not getting killed, though? I don't mind being the voice of that."

A sound like a hysterical high-pitched laugh erupted from somewhere to their left.

"Maker's breath, Hawke. What kind of place have you dragged us to?" Varric called.

"It is not unlike Seheron," Fenris commented. There was a strange look on his face, almost hungry, but sad, as well. Jennie remembered his tale of being taken in by the Fog Warriors in Seheron and then killing them on Danarius's command, and she couldn't blame him for feeling a longing for the place and feeling guilty that he longed. She felt a similar way about the Wilds—it had been the first place she truly felt at home and comfortable with herself, but it also reminded her of her family and having been ripped away from everything she cared about over and over again.

"It is as warm as an Antivan summer," Zev said appreciatively. "It is the first time I have ceased to be cold since I took the contract on the Fereldan Wardens."

"I remember you being quite warm once, Zev," Isabela said, grinning wickedly.

"Ah, that certainly came close. Perhaps you would like me to tell you about it?" he asked Varric, leaning close to the dwarf.

Varric put out a hand, shoving Zev's shoulder away. The elf's horse skittered to the side, and Zev drew the reins up short, pulling him expertly to a stop. Varric chuckled. "I have a fine imagination, Flash. I don't need yours."

The back of the line, where Fergus and Anders rode, was silent. Jennie glanced back, her eyes connecting with Fergus's, and she looked away, feeling a heated blush steal up her cheeks. She half-expected Isabela to have a comment to make, but when she glanced at the pirate, Isabela was pointedly looking elsewhere. Oghren was quiet, too, Jennie realized, trying to distract herself by wondering what was wrong with the normally boisterous dwarf. But it didn't work. She kept picturing Fergus's face, his eyes on hers, the questions in them. Or were they answers, to questions she didn't even know she'd asked? It was foolish, she told herself, to be distracted by this kind of thing. They had enough to think about without allowing themselves to get side-tracked by romance—that never worked out well, in her experience. Take her own parents: they had run away from Kirkwall together, so in love they couldn't think of anything but each other. But they hadn't had that luxury. They'd had Jennie, and then the twins, and five mouths to feed and two heads to hide from the Templars, and as far as Jennie could tell, they had never made the transition from lovers to responsible, caring parents. It had been a hardscrabble living from start to finish, never enough to eat, never enough money to buy shoes that fit. And her parents, so constantly besotted with each other, had never seemed to care how squalid their surroundings were.

Jennie had sworn a long time ago that she'd never fall in love, never let her entire life be sidetracked by her feelings for one person. She had always had more important things to do, and she had never wanted to create a family she couldn't care for out of some lovesick inability to think ahead. Perhaps that wouldn't be the case with Fergus—both of them were fully capable of supporting a family and more on their own, after all—but he needed a noble wife, and she ... didn't need a husband, or someone else to lose from her life.

"Perhaps we could talk." Fergus's voice startled her and she jerked the horse's reins, causing it to shy. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed when Isabela pulled ahead and the others dropped back, leaving her riding more or less alone with Fergus.

"Does this really seem like the right time to you?"

"Well, no." He grinned. "It's entirely the wrong time." Jennie noticed he was turning the wooden ring around and around on his finger, a habit he had when he was worried. "But ... I have to admit, I don't want to go on wondering if I've offended you horribly or if ..." His voice trailed off just when Jennie most wanted to know what he had to say.

"If what?" she asked, without having consciously intended to speak. She certainly hadn't intended to be leaning toward him, breathlessly waiting to hear what he would say. 

"If maybe sometime we could try last night's activity again." His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile, but there was worry there, too.

Jennie winced. "Oh. Fergus ... I really don't think that's such a good idea." 

"Why not? Is there—are you involved with someone?"

"No, but you are." She was shocked by her own bluntness. That wasn't at all what she had intended to say. From the startled, slapped look on Fergus's face, it wasn't what he had expected her to say, either. In a softer voice, Jennie said, "You're still in love with your wife, Fergus. Whatever ... it is that you think you feel for me—"

"Is that what you think of me? That I would use you as a replacement for Oriana?"

"I don't know what to think!" She heard her voice rise and caught herself, glancing behind at the others, all of whom just happened to be looking in other directions. In a lower voice, she said, "I don't understand."

Fergus shook his head. "I don't know if I do, either. I just—since Oriana, there hasn't been ... You're the first woman I've felt anything for, and I—" He broke off, looking troubled. "I wanted to ... try."

Jennie frowned. "You mean, I was an experiment?" That Fergus, usually so self-possessed, was this flustered made her feel sorry for him, but his words made her angry. 

"No. That's not what I meant." He drew himself up stiffly. "But clearly I have offended you with my intentions, Ser Hawke. I will not trouble you further." He put spurs to his horse and moved forward, catching up with Isabela.

Jennie was torn between calling him back and wishing him good riddance. Would she have apologized if he had come back? She wasn't certain. Maybe she'd have asked him to apologize.

"Hawke!" Isabela called back over her shoulder, and Jennie was ready to bristle, not wanting to be called to Fergus's side for whatever twisted reason Isabela might have. But the excitement on Isabela's face was genuine, and Jennie hurried forward. "Look at that," Isabela said breathlessly.

Jennie did, and her jaw dropped. They were at the top of a long hill, and could see far across the valley. In the distance, massive trees rose into the sky, the ground beneath them obscured by heavy vines and the shade of the trees. Down the hill and in the lowland bright green ferns carpeted the ground. Jennie could hear the deep call of some wild beast, and the sharp cry of a large bird of prey, wheeling high in the sky. There was no indication that any human—or elf or dwarf, for that matter—had ever set foot there. Something in her responded to the primitive, unspoiled landscape. She felt a surge of energy, of exhilaration, a sudden desire to spur her horse and ride down the hill at top speed whooping aloud. The only thing that held her back was her deep suspicion of such a feeling; Jennie had spend enough time around magic to recognize its fingers when they stroked her. 

Anders came up beside her, looking troubled. The air around him crackled with energy, held in with difficulty. Fenris's markings were glowing, and Zev looked nearly as feral as Isabela. Only the two dwarves appeared unaffected. And Fergus, who was looking out over the expanse of wilderness with alarm.

"Is this not what you expected?" she asked Fergus.

He shook his head. "I didn't know what to expect. It's—vast. And there's no sign that anyone lives here other than animals." His eyes met Jennie's. When she saw the fear there, she instinctively reached for his hand, feeling it close around hers. "What if they came here and didn't make it? It never occurred to me that the danger ..." He squeezed harder, clinging to her hand.

"You can't think that way," she said urgently. The heat of the ring he wore radiated through her glove, and she shook his hand a little. "If he was ... gone ... the ring would have cooled down, wouldn't it?"

"How do I know? All I know is some sketchy tale of magic my little brother told me," Fergus said, but some of the panic cleared from his eyes. He took a deep breath, looking down at their joined hands, and he lifted hers to his mouth, kissing the back of it in a courtly gesture that felt warmer than the enchanted ring, even through the thick leather of Jennie's gauntlet. "Thank you." He gave her hand a final squeeze and let go, leaving Jennie to wonder what message, exactly, she had just sent, and what he had meant to convey in return. 

The bird of prey called again, dropping lower. It was enormous, its wingspan easily as wide as Jennie was tall, and its bony body was sharply outlined against the sky. It swooped over their heads. Jennie thought it appeared to be studying them, the great head tilting to the side so the dark eyes could see more clearly. It swooped again and climbed high into the sky, calling out again.

Zev looked up into the sky, staring at the bird. "Ah." The exhalation was surprisingly sharp. 

"Maybe I've just gone off my nut," Varric said, "but I could swear it just said 'hurry up'."

"Perhaps it did." Zev was following the bird's path with his eyes as it disappeared above the trees. "Stranger things have happened."

"Well, let's not keep the big bird waiting," Isabela said. She nudged the horse's sides with her heels. "HEEYAH!" And they were off down the hill, Isabela's hair streaming behind her. They could hear the pirate laughing all the way down the incline.

"Show-off," Varric muttered, but he, too, yelled at his horse and went pelting down the hill. If Varric had known what a comical sight he would be, bouncing wildly in the saddle the way he was, he'd never have done it, Jennie thought.

"I adore that dwarf," Zevran said to her. 

"Get in line." She followed Varric, laughing as the wind tousled her hair, which was growing shaggy and unkempt on the trail. Zev caught up with her and then passed her. Fergus and Fenris followed more carefully, and Oghren and Anders brought up the rear, picking their way down slowly. 

The heat was more intense in the valley, the sun beating down hard on their heads. Jennie hoped they were going to come across some water soon, as their canteens were getting low, but before she could make the remark the bird of prey reappeared. It sailed across the sky over their heads, calling sharply.

"That's an impatient bird," Anders said.

"You have no concept," Zev replied. He waved cheerfully at the bird, which gave a short bark of a reply that even without words clearly told Zev not to be ridiculous. "I believe we should follow."

The bird's cry this time was of the "you think?" variety, and there was a contemptousness in its movement as it turned and flew back toward the forest. Jennie urged her horse to a trot, anxious to keep the bird in sight. The others followed her, hurrying across the fern-covered expanse of land in the direction the bird had gone. The horses' long strides ate up the ground, but as far as Jennie could tell, the forest wasn't getting any closer.

"It will not be easy for the Grey Wardens ... or anyone else ... to pursue us," Fenris said to Jennie.

"That's true. Good." She cast a glance over her shoulder, wondering what Bethany would think of this place. She'd never liked the Wilds, preferring the settled areas and the more civilized people who lived in them. Of course, those civilized people had mostly wanted to kill people like Bethany, but Jennie suspected that may have been part of the attraction for her sister—pretending to be normal for as long as she could. 

As they approached the forest at last, Jennie could see a wolf awaiting them, its tail neatly curled around its legs. Such a prosaic, homelike animal seemed out of place here in this untamed wilderness. The sun shone full on Jennie's face as it slanted across the forest. They had been riding for hours, it appeared, but it had felt like only a few minutes. 

The wolf stood up as they came near, stalking across the ferns. The horses were anxious, fighting the bits, but eventually they were able to bring them all to a stop in front of the wolf, which stood still until they were quiet.

Zev cleared his throat, grinning wildly. "Jennie Hawke, may I introduce Morrigan Cousland?"

Fergus started noticeably at the name, and the wolf suddenly rose on its hind legs. In a wild scattering of fur, the wolf became a beautiful woman with black hair, who crossed her arms and glared at Zev.

"You ridiculous elf, is it not perfectly obvious that such trappings are not necessary here?"

"You are as charming as always."

"Hmph." Morrigan's gaze moved over the assembled company. She exchanged challenging glances with Isabela and nodded coldly to Oghren, who grunted. 

"Flashy-tits! Wilderness livin's been good to ya." He gazed in admiration at the scanty furs she wore.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. She turned to look at Fergus. "You are welcome here. Wulfric will be glad to know you have arrived safely."

"How is he?"

"Well enough. For now." Morrigan had passed over Jennie as irrelevant in her first appraisal of the company, but now her eyes came to rest on Jennie's face. She frowned. "I know you."


	19. The Girl I Left Behind Me

Morrigan was studying Jennie's face intently. "We have met before, yes?"

Jennie nodded in response to Morrigan's frown of recognition. "Yes. In the Wilds. A long time ago."

"Very long. It is surprising to find you here, of all places. I would have imagined you to have perished in the Blight."

"Almost, but not quite."

"You have become more resourceful, then, since the first time I met you?" There was a small smile on Morrigan's face. 

Jennie grinned in response. "I've had to, without you around to drag me out of the mud."

She vividly remembered the first time she'd seen the strange girl in the Wilds—Jennie had made a foolish misstep and had been caught in the mud, slowly being sucked further into the morass, when she looked up and saw a girl with raven-black hair leaning against a tree, calmly regarding her with exotic golden eyes. The girl had made a comment about fools who stepped in the mud deserving what they got, but when Jennie had asked, the girl got a long branch and between the two of them they managed to lever Jennie out of the mud. They had spent most of the afternoon hunting together. They'd seen each other once or twice more before Jennie's family had fled their village, but somehow had never gotten around to exchanging names. Jennie had wondered if perhaps the girl was some sort of spirit of the forest, appearing only occasionally to mortals. Now she knew.

"It never occurred to me when I met Asha'bellanar and she spoke of a daughter named Morrigan that she might mean you, although now I'm thinking it should have," Jennie said.

"Asha'bellanar? You met my mother?" Morrigan's already pale face whitened. "What did she say?"

"She spoke of you as a girl who thought she knew a lot more than she actually did," Anders put in. 

"Apparently that is the case." Morrigan turned to look at Zev. "I was told my mother was dead."

Zev shrugged. "We spoke to an old woman in the Wilds, she turned into a dragon, we killed it—because we are awesomely skilled—and we harvested the bones and skin. You tell me, how does a person survive such a thing?"

"I don't know." Morrigan's gaze moved to Jennie. "Maybe you can tell me."

"I carried her in my pocket." Quickly, Jennie told the tale of meeting the old woman who was a dragon outside Lothering, of making a deal with her for their lives, and of setting her free from the amulet at the top of Sundermount.

"So Flemeth lives and is free to roam Thedas. It is worse than I had anticipated. We must hurry."

Fergus cleared his throat, joining the conversation for the first time. He looked pointedly at the horses and then at the densely hanging overgrowth before them. "I don't know how successful we'll be at hurrying."

"Nevertheless, we must." Morrigan looked coolly at the horses. "How valuable are they to you?"

"They carry things a lot better than I do," Varric said.

Morrigan snorted. "During the Blight, we carried all our belongings across Ferelden."

"Well, lah-di-dah," Isabela muttered under her breath.

"We could leave someone here with the horses," Fergus suggested.

"Unwise. The creatures who dwell in this place are more powerful than you may think—one warrior, even a skilled one, cannot hold them off."

"Then we have to try to get the horses through this mess," Jennie said decisively. "Not necessarily because I don't want to carry all the gear ourselves," she said in response to Morrigan's coldly disdainful look, "but because they're innocent creatures and I don't want to leave them here to be killed. Also, I'd like to go home eventually." The last sentence was a bit of a probe, and she watched Morrigan carefully for a reaction.

"Perhaps," the other woman allowed. She tapped her foot, staring into the distance. "Come this way, then. There may be a path we can take."

She pushed aside some vines and ducked beneath them, entering the vast expanse of vivid green that stretched before them. 

"Fenris, you first," Jennie said. The elf nodded, unhesitatingly swinging down from his horse and leading the animal into the forest behind Morrigan. Jennie nodded to Varric. "Then you, Varric, and Anders and Fergus and Zev and Oghren and Isabela. I'll bring up the rear."

To her surprise, Oghren cleared his throat. "Maybe it'd be better if I did that, Champion. Brought up the rear."

"No offense intended, Oghren, but you're a little slower-moving than the rest of us. I'd hate to have you fall behind."

"Don't worry about me," the dwarf grunted. "I can keep up."

"Well, maybe it would be useful to have someone as indestructible as you in the back," Jennie said thoughtfully. "All right, Oghren, you've convinced me."

"Uh ... thanks." He shifted uncomfortably on his horse.

"I know you won't let us down."

To Jennie's surprise, her words led Oghren into a massive coughing fit. For a moment, she thought he might fall over, but he stopped before that happened, wheezing. "'M all right."

"Good." She watched him for a moment with concern. It was her turn to plunge into the forest, though, and she did so.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The first thing Fergus noticed as he entered the dense forest was the heat. It was like a solid wall of wet wool, pressing in on him. The second thing he noticed were the bugs—swarms of them, bright red with tiny iridescent blue wings, their constant humming maddening in his ear. 

Anders turned around, calling over the head of the horse he was leading. "Morrigan says ignore them—if you swat at them, they feed off the aggression and attack."

Fergus nodded briefly, causing the cloud of insects around his head to flutter away briefly. He turned to call the warning back to Zev and then faced front, the bugs closing in around him again, dancing around his head in strange patterns that made it hard to focus on the solid form of the horse in front of him. There was a strange rushing in his ears now, almost a thundering. For a moment, he wondered if the bugs had bewitched him somehow. Then he came through a curtain of vines and found himself standing on the edge of a swift-running set of rapids, the river disappearing into the distance to both left and right. 

Morrigan, Varric, and Anders were waiting there. As Fergus approached, Morrigan nodded briskly at him. "We will need to cross one at a time," she said, gesturing at an enormous moss-covered tree that spanned the rapids. "It will not hold more than one." She glanced into the trees. "I am concerned that Oghren and his horse will be too much."

"We'll take care of him," Fergus said. "Varric, you want to take the lead?"

The dwarf looked out at the rapids, appearing a bit green around the gills. "Uh ... maybe Blondie wants to be the nug."

"I've seen nugs, and I don't want to be one," Anders said.

Zev came up behind them. "I will go, my friend," he said, smiling down at Varric. "And you can follow."

"Very well, then," Morrigan said. "Let us be off." And where she had stood suddenly a raven hovered.

Crooning softly to his horse in Antivan, Zev led the animal onto the log, stepping carefully but with surprising speed. The horse followed willingly enough, and they were both on the other side of the river in a short time. The raven hovered above Zev's head for the moment, cawing sharply as he said something to her with a grin on his face, and then flew back, flapping its wings imperatively at Varric.

Taking a deep breath, the dwarf stepped forward. He was slower than Zev, but he made it across as well. Fenris followed, and Fergus went next, fighting the urge to swat at the cloud of insects that got in his line of sight and made it hard to see his footing. 

Over the rush and buzz in his ears caused by river and bugs, he heard a shout behind him, but he didn't dare turn until he had finished crossing. Once his feet were on solid ground and he had led the horse the rest of the way off the log, he turned and beheld with horror the scene on the other side of the river.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jennie burst through the trees, viewing the river in dismay. She could see Fergus partially across the log, stepping with infinite care. How would Oghren ever manage to cross that, much less with a horse? Someone would have to come back and lead his horse, she thought, turning to say as much, but the words were stilled on her lips when she saw the fiery berserker coming at her with his axe raised.

"Oghren, stop!" She threw herself out of his way at the last moment, blessing her quick reflexes. Oghren caught himself and turned, swinging his axe back into position. 

A familiar crackle of energy buzzed through Jennie's veins, taking her breath away and constricting her muscles. Bethany, she thought sickly. 

She saw a flash of white and recognized the tail of Isabela's tunic as the pirate climbed up a nearby tree. There was a muffled shriek, and a big black and silver snake fell from the tree, followed by a string of salty curses.

"Oghren!" Anders shouted, and a sudden breath of cool air wafted across Jennie's face as the dwarf was encased in ice, his raised axe only a few inches from her face. Anders turned with a shout as an arrow sped through the air, lodging itself in his upper arm. He ripped it out, a flash of blue showing as he knit the wound back together again. 

The paralysis was wearing off, and Jennie reached for her own bow. "Clever girl, Bethany," she muttered under her breath, taking stock of the situation: three of their party on the opposite side of the river, including two of their warriors, and the third warrior somehow coopted to the Wardens' side. The cloud of insects around her head got in the way as she tried to peer into the forest and discern how many Wardens there were, and she brushed impatiently at them, her hand slapping one.

She pulled her bow, nocking an arrow, barely feeling the sting of the bug's retaliation as a big red-haired warrior, a Dalish archer, a slender man with wickedy curved daggers poised in his hands, and finally her sister made their appearance.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As soon as they could tell what was happening on the other side of the river, Zev swore succinctly in Antivan and began running lightly back across the log. The raven fluttered along with him. Fenris followed, moving almost as quickly as Zev had been able to, his lyrium markings already blazing. Fergus waited impatiently until Fenris was clear of the log before starting across himself, frustration boiling inside him. Why did it seem he was always cut off when a battle was taking place? He could barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, balancing precariously on the log, and he couldn't see what was happening.

By the time he had reached the other side of the river, the battle was beginning to wane. A thin black-haired Warden was fallen, one of Jennie's arrows lodged in his eye socket. Fenris and a big red-haired warrior were locked in furious combat. A large green spider and Zev were menacing Oghren. Isabela's daggers flashed as she dodged the gleaming arrows of a Dalish archer, blood streaming from a wound in her arm. Anders and Bethany were exchanging bolts of magical energy, the air practically crackling with it. Jennie had her bow out and was firing arrows, but she was swaying slightly where she stood, her eyes glazed. Fergus's first instinct was to go to her, but a cry from Isabela turned him in that direction. The pirate was down on the ground, an arrow embedded in her breast. Fergus couldn't help wondering if her endowments were actually big enough to stop an arrow. She seemed to be breathing, he noticed in a quick glance as he rushed the archer. The Dalish calmly readied another arrow, but couldn't stand against Fergus's greater strength. A blow from Fergus's shield sent the Dalish flying.

As his sword was about to spear through the man's entrails, Fergus thought of his brother. For better or for worse, Grey Wardens were Wulfric's people. Could he really kill one this way? Flipping the sword, he gripped it in one metal-gauntleted fist and gave the Dalish a smart tap in the head with the heavily scrolled pommel to put the elf out of the battle. 

Isabela had her eyes open as Fergus turned to her. "Don't mind me. Go save our healer; can't have a scar in one of the girls," she croaked, managing a semblance of her usual grin.

Fenris had finished off the red-haired warrior and was approaching Bethany. Clearly the elf hadn't had the qualms that had stayed Fergus's hand; the red-haired warrior was dead, his life's blood pumping into the jungle grass. Morrigan and Zev had finally succeeded in immobilizing Oghren through a combination of paralyzing poison and spider's webbing. Bethany was still on her feet, no one daring to be too lethal with Jennie's sister, while Jennie herself was swaying, barely able to hold the bow.

Small spider hairs and bits of webbing flew in a circle as Morrigan resumed her human shape. "Face me, mage!" she called out, and Bethany turned in her direction, fire in her eyes. Anders took advantage of Bethany's distraction to hurry to Isabela's side. 

As the eyes of the two female mages met, Bethany's widened. She gave a choked sound, her body stiffening. Her head jerked slightly as though she was trying to look away but unable to. Morrigan muttered a word under her breath and Bethany began to shriek in utter terror, her eyes staring off into the distance as if she saw something none of the rest of them could. Zev came up behind her and waved an open vial under her nose. The shrieking ceased and Bethany crumpled back into the elf's arms.

"F-Fergus?" He turned to look at Jennie, whose blue eyes were hazy and confused as she struggled to focus on him. As her knees buckled under her, he rushed to her side, barely in time to catch her as she fell.


	20. Carried Away

Fergus sank to his knees with Jennie's limp body in his arms. Her face was reddened, her breathing harsh and heavy. "Morrigan. What is this?" He wasn't sure if he hoped this was some problem related to Morrigan's jungle or one of Bethany's spells. Whichever was easiest to fix, that was for sure. He didn't like seeing her face so still.

Anders looked up from Isabela's bleeding bosom. "How bad is she?"

"I don't know."

Morrigan turned from an intense whispered conversation with Zev over Oghren's unconscious body and hurried to Fergus's side. She put a confident hand on Jennie's brow, and then gently opened one of Jennie's eyelids. "As I suspected." She gestured at the heavy cloud of insects that still hung over them. "She was bitten by a number of these." Her golden eyes lifted to meet Fergus's with a surprisingly kind look. "We will need to hurry, but I have the antidote. There is not so much danger as there appears."

"Let's go, then."

"Uh, what are we going to do with the prisoners?" Varric shook his head. "I've always wanted to say that, but it's really no fun without Hawke awake to hear it."

"I will stay here with them, if Morrigan deems that wise," Fenris said.

"I'll stay with you," Zev and Isabela said simultaneously.

Then Isabela cried out as Anders jerked the arrow still embedded in her breast. "Watch it! I've got a lot of plans for those girls."

"So I see," he muttered. Then, louder, "Hold still."

"The mage and the dwarf should stay, as well," Morrigan said. 

"You want to take Hawke and Cousland here into the jungle by themselves?" Varric asked. "I've heard better ideas."

"Your suspicions do you credit, dwarf, but 'tis the safest way. The means I will use to transport them does not allow for extra weight."

"Blondie, have you looked at Hawke? What do you think?"

Anders gave a final pat to Isabela's healed breast, causing the pirate to slap his hand, before moving over to inspect Jennie. He held his hand over her flushed face, closing his eyes as though listening. "It's nothing I'm familiar with. Some type of venom, I'd imagine. Zev?"

The assassin glanced at Morrigan, who was tapping her foot impatiently. "I yield my expertise to our lovely local. If she says she knows what it is and how to resolve the situation, I would trust her."

"Let's go, then," Fergus said to Morrigan. It crossed his mind that it was strange he should accept the assassin's word so easily, when he hadn't entirely trusted the woman his brother had made a life with. Then again, Wulfric hadn't always made the best choices. He'd have to see his brother to truly be certain all was well there. 

Morrigan may have been able to read his thoughts on his face; there was a sharp amusement in her eyes as she looked at him. "Very well. Climb aboard. But be careful! I do not relish being injured as you yank on my wing."

Fergus didn't dignify that remark with a rejoinder. He waited while she transformed, her arms elongating into long, leathery wings and her face into a sharp, curved beak. Fergus recognized the bird of prey that had led them into the forest. Allowing Fenris to hold Hawke's limp body, Fergus climbed aboard the giant bird, settling at the base of its long neck. He marveled at the strength it must take to carry two people, wondering how long Morrigan had practiced to be able to transform into such a large creature. It (she?) gave an impatient squawk as Fenris carefully laid Hawke's body in Fergus's arms again, and took off the moment the exchange had been performed.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Left behind, the group on the ground looked at each other, feeling leaderless. 

Varric sighed, stepping forward. "Let's at least set up camp. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd be a lot happier with a few layers of canvas between me and these Maker-forsaken bugs."

There was universal approval of this idea. They made sure the Dalish elf and Bethany, both still unconscious, were securely tied up—Oghren was still snoring under the effects of Morrigan-as-spider's venom, which Zev assured Varric would wear off eventually and leave the dwarf unaltered—and Fenris was left to guard the three of them while everyone else busied themselves creating a campsite. They all felt a lot better once that task had been accomplished. The bugs still droned, and the heat, even inside the tents, was oppressive, but the small amount of shade gave at least the illusion of an improvement.

Anders looked around the clearing and as far into the dark green forest on either side as he could, his face twisting. "I can't believe Wulfric actually enjoys living here."

Zev shrugged. "He was never as uncomfortable with the outdoor life as some of the more refined of us. In that way, he and Morrigan were well-suited to each other." He lifted a leather bucket and carried it to the river, dipping it into the water. Suddenly he gave a startled shout, and he lifted the bucket, water gushing out of the huge bite that had been taken out of it. 

Fenris looked at it with interest. "Piranhas?"

"You say that like it's a good thing," Varric grumbled. 

"It is rather reminiscent of Seheron." 

"Then you, my deliciously brooding friend, may fetch the water." Zev tossed the ruined bucket into the river, watching as the water roiled around it for a moment until it had disappeared completely. With a troubled face, he went over to Oghren, who lay twitching and snoring in his cocoon of spider's webbing. "I have known this man for some time; I would not have imagined he could have turned on us so completely."

"What do you think, Blondie? Magic?"

The mage shook his head slowly. "I don't believe so."

"Let's wake up Sunshine and get some answers." Varric looked down at Bethany's peaceful face. "I don't know what happened to her."

"The Grey Wardens happened," Anders said bitterly.

Zev knelt next to Bethany, waving a different vial under her nose. She coughed a bit and spluttered before opening her eyes and glaring up into the elf's face. The mage twisted a bit, trying to get her hands free to perform a spell, but she was securely tied. "Release me at once!"

"Only if you promise to play nice, Sunshine." 

"Not even if she crosses her heart and hopes to die," Isabela countered. She moved into Bethany's field of view and glared down at the mage. "You attacked your own sister!"

"I wouldn't have hurt her. I just wanted to incapacitate her."

"As far as I can tell, 'incapacitate' is just another word for 'hurt'," Anders put in.

"Shut up, you traitor! You turned your back on the Wardens when we asked for your help."

"I had my reasons—" Anders began hotly, but stopped when Zev held up a hand for silence.

"They asked for your help, Anders? When? Before we left Val Royeaux?" The assassin's voice was dangerously soft.

"Well ... Yes."

"And you did not think to mention this to any of us?"

The question hung in the air, the caught look on Anders's face answering it eloquently. 

Isabela spat a curse word into the silence. Bethany stayed silent, watching Zev's face. Varric sighed heavily, stroking Bianca's stock. 

Fenris nudged Oghren with his foot. "I believe now we understand what happened with our companion here."

Crossing the clearing to stand over Bethany, Isabela bent down, putting her face very close to the mage's. "You bitch! What did you do, threaten to hurt his family?" 

"What do you care? All you ever were concerned about is you."

"Don't confuse me with yourself." The two women stared at each other for a long moment before Isabela stood up. She kicked the mage in the side. "You should be ashamed. What would your mother say to what you've become?"

"Leave my mother out of this."

"You're hardly in a position to give commands."

"Isabela." Zev's voice was quiet, but it got the pirate's attention. "Let it go. We understand what happened with our friend here, and we cannot deal with Warden Bethany until we have spoken to Jennie."

"Spoken to her? Where is my sister?" Bethany squirmed around on the ground, looking for Jennie.

"She was injured—"

"Ill," Anders corrected.

"Ill. Probably from bug bites," Varric added. "We sent her off with Cousland and the witch."

"You did what?" Bethany struggled to sit up. "How could you do that? You can't trust that woman!"

Zev put his foot on Bethany's chest, forcing her back down again. "I traveled with 'that woman', as you call her, during the entire Blight. I trust her as much as I trust anyone in the world; I trust you not at all. And I think very little of people who are willing to attack their own family without provocation." 

"I had plenty of provocation. The Wardens—"

Fenris broke in, his voice hard. "Your sister is not part of the Wardens, and has no obligation to them. And if you know what is best for you, mage, you will shut up. Now." His markings flared, and Bethany's eyes widened in evident fear.

"Masterfully done, oh beautiful glowering one," Zev said, casting Fenris an appreciative grin.

"Just stop her mouth, will you?"

"You used to say you liked me," Bethany said, her eyes on Fenris with something that looked like regret.

"I said I thought you were very strong. They are not necessarily the same thing." 

Zev knelt next to her, gagging her with a strip of soft cloth. "I think it is best if you stop talking now."

Varric sighed, looking at the trussed-up mage. "We've come a long way, Sunshine. Maybe too far." He went into his tent, letting the flap fall. Isabela stood looking at the tent speculatively.

"I would not do what you are considering," Fenris said. 

"No, I suppose you're right," she agreed with a sigh. "What about some food? We might as well eat; who knows how long we'll be waiting."  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The great bird's wings moved powerfully, carrying Fergus and Jennie high above the forest. The land lay below them in shades of deep and bright greens, broken by occasional brown strips of river. The Tirashan was far larger than he had expected; either that or Morrigan wasn't flying in a straight line, he considered, as the bird banked and then straightened. She had reason not to be too trusting, even of him.

They were drawing near a high cliff, part of a long wall of rock that edged the massive forest. With some surprise, Fergus wondered if these were the Hunterhorn Mountains, which formed the far western boundary of Thedas. The mountain ridge curved, stretching as far as his eye could see. On the other side of that curve lay the western Anderfels, he remembered. But the mountains themselves appeared impassable. As they flew closer, Fergus could see a dark well in the wall, and movement along the lip of the well. It was a cave, he realized. It seemed strange at first, but then he realized what a good idea it must be. High above the heat of the forest, far from predators, inaccessible to anyone who couldn't fly, it must be the safest they could possibly be. It occurred to him to wonder if the cave felt like a prison to his brother, who couldn't turn into a bird at his every whim. But somehow he suspected Wulfric had found a way; his brother had never been one to be daunted by circumstance. 

He could see the figures more clearly now—a taller one and a shorter one. His brother and his nephew. Despite the unconscious woman in his arms, Fergus felt excitement surge through him. He'd thought at one time that he would never see Wulfric again, and now there he was. The bird drew closer to the lip of the rock, and Fergus's eyes met his brother's.

Bronzed by the sun, wearing only a brief loincloth, his dark hair long and falling around his shoulders, Wulfric looked like some wild man of legend, a far cry from the urbane nobleman's son Fergus had watched grow up. The child at Wulfric's side looked similar, tall and dark of hair like his parents and somehow part of this wilderness. 

"Mama! Mama!" The child ran forward as the great ugly bird landed, not at all put off by the leathery wings and the long sharp beak. 

Fergus moved off the bird's back, helped by the bowing of its elongated neck, careful not to jostle Jennie any more than he had to.

"Brother." Wulfric's big hands hung awkwardly at his side as the two of them stood looking at each other. "Fergus. It's good to see you."

"And you as well." Tears stung his eyes. "You have no idea how good."

Wulfric moved forward, leaning over Jennie's body, and the two brothers embraced as best they could. Fergus could feel his brother's tears trickling down the back of his neck, and knew that his own were falling on the bare shoulder he leaned against.


	21. Been a Long Day

"Who's this?" Wulfric asked, dropping his arms from Fergus's shoulders after several long moments and stepping back to look down at the woman in his brother's arms.

Fergus glanced down at Jennie's pale face with concern as Morrigan, human again, moved toward him purposefully. 

"Bring her in here," she said, gesturing to the mouth of the cave.

Fergus followed, laying Jennie down on a pallet of furs set near a fire pit. The cave was fairly well lit with what appeared to be homemade candles, but it was a much farther way from Highever Castle than Fergus had ever imagined. He didn't like to think of himself as a snob, but seeing the way his brother was living horrified him. A glance at Wulfric's face told him that his little brother had read his thoughts, and was amused by them. At least he wasn't offended, Fergus thought. 

Morrigan was deep in the cave, and Fergus could hear rustling sounds as she looked for the ingredients she needed. He stood next to Wulfric, feeling helpless.

"Who is she?" Wulfric asked again, his eyes on Jennie. 

"The Champion of Kirkwall." At his brother's blank look, it occurred to Fergus how completely outside of the world Wulfric lived.

"Kirkwall," Wulfric said, thinking back. "The Free Marches, right?" He shook his head, chuckling a little. "I haven't thought of the places of Thedas for a long time." The little boy butted his head up against Wulfric's thigh. Dropping his hand to ruffle the boy's dark hair, Wulfric said, "I'd forgotten you two haven't met. Arthur, this is your uncle Fergus. Fergus, this is Arthur."

In the long trek here, Fergus had not thought that the boy would be ... a boy. He had thought baby, baby, until the idea of an infant had embedded itself firmly in his mind. To see his brother now, with his wife, his small child—Fergus swallowed against the lump in his throat. He would not envy his brother what he had wrested from the midst of a Blight, not even when it was such a vivid reminder of what that Blight had cost Fergus. "Arthur," he said, clearing his throat. "It's nice to meet you."

"And you, ser." The child dipped his head in a genteel acknowledgment that was pure Eleanor Cousland. It might have brought back further painful memories if it hadn't been so amusing that here in this wilderness, manners were the teaching of their mother's that Wulfric chose to pass on. 

Fergus returned the gesture gravely. He saw no sign of an old god hidden in the little boy's eyes. He appeared no different from any small boy of four or five. A bit of baby pudge still clung to him about the waist, but the limbs were long and slim and he held himself like an older child. 

Here was a grandson Bryce and Eleanor Cousland would have been proud of. But hidden out here, far from the rest of the world, he was hardly the heir the Teyrnir needed. If that was what Fergus had been looking for, some indication that the succession was secured in the person of Wulfric's child, he had not found it. He couldn't hide from his destiny any longer—he needed to marry, to find someone with whom he could build the kind of family that would make the rebuilt walls of Highever Castle ring with the laughter of his childhood. 

A faint moan from the pallet of furs brought his eyes and his thoughts back to Jennie. He couldn't deny that he felt an attraction to her—he was drawn to the strength in her thin body and the vulnerability in her wide eyes. She was the first woman since the Blight to arouse him without at the same time bringing back thoughts of Oriana. Compared to Jennie's real, living face, the cherished memory of his wife's features was faded now, drifted away into the background. But was it love that he felt, or the longing for companionship? Was he considering some kind of a future with Jennie? He simply wasn't sure.

Morrigan had ground a paste from the ingredients she'd collected. She took some of it on her fingers and dipped them into Jennie's mouth. A fit of coughing and spluttering followed; Fergus could only hope some of the paste had actually been swallowed in the process.

"So, this Champion," Wulfric said, trying again to get at the whys and wherefores of his brother showing up with an unconscious woman in his arms. "What did she do? Marry the Viscount?"

"Hardly. It's possible she was indirectly responsible for the Viscount's death."

"Huh. And they acclaimed her for that?"

"No, apparently they acclaimed her for defeating a Qunari Arishok in single combat."

Wulfric stared at Jennie, pale and slender on the pile of furs, then turned back to Fergus. "Unless they're making Arishoks differently these days, I think someone's told you a big story."

Fergus laughed. "Many of them, actually. Wait until you meet Varric. Jennie's companion," he added when Wulfric frowned in confusion. "He's a dwarf with a penchant for tales that compensate for his lack of height." He looked back at Jennie, who was stirring uncomfortably, but the color was back in her face. "Jennie has hinted that there was more to the combat with the Arishok than is commonly known, but I haven't heard her version yet. Varric's version has her shooting an arrow directly in the Arishok's eye while being spitted on his giant sword." 

"That sounds unlikely."

"It does, rather." 

"So you came with ..."

"Jennie."

"You came here with Jennie, and this dwarf, Varric. Anyone else?"

Fergus grinned. It was nice to see some curiosity in Wulfric's eyes—it made him seem more like Fergus's little brother and less like some wild man of the mountains. "A few familiar names," he said. "Zev."

A delighted smile spread across Wulfric's face. "The Crows haven't caught up to him yet?"

"The way I understand it, he caught up to the Crows."

"I'd have liked to have seen that." There was a wistfulness in Wulfric's voice, and Morrigan paused in her ministrations to cast a glance full of sympathy and love at Wulfric. That glance went a long way toward reconciling Fergus to the drastic changes in his brother's life. "Anyone else?"

"I somehow got talked into letting Oghren come along." Both brothers chuckled, although Fergus's trailed off at the memory of Oghren lying subdued in a cocoon of spider's webbing. "And Jennie's companions included a couple of familiar faces, as well. Do you remember Isabela?"

Morrigan rolled her eyes, standing up and stretching her back. Jennie was breathing more easily now, Fergus was relieved to see. "What, pray tell, does that dockside strumpet do in Kirkwall?"

"Helps Jennie out, apparently. They're some kind of mercenary team."

"Mercenaries?" Wulfric frowned. "Fergus, what type of people have you brought out here? We have no coin for them to grasp after."

"Most of them seem to have come because they care about you, little brother. I've agreed to pay Jennie and her companions, that's true, but they're good people. Give them a chance before you get on your high horse." Fergus walked away from his brother, moving to Jennie's side and kneeling next to her. He put a gentle hand out and laid it on her forehead, relieved to feel that it was cooler already.

Morrigan said, "She will awaken shortly; meanwhile we should consider what to do about your companions. It is not safe to leave them out in the jungle for long, but you can see why it would be impractical to bring them all here."

"Not to mention unsafe," Wulfric added, with a significant glance at the little boy, who had stood unnaturally still and silent all this time.

Fergus twisted around, looking at his brother over his shoulder. "Speaking of unsafe ... the Grey Wardens followed us here."

"Which Wardens?"

"The only ones still alive when we left were Jennie's sister, a mage named Bethany, and a Dalish archer whose name I don't know."

"Thrand, I suspect," Wulfric said. "Dangerous; he's very persuasive."

"Like Leliana?" Fergus asked, wincing at how easily he had allowed her voice and manner to work on him.

"Where did you meet Leliana?"

"You did not tell me that you had spoken with her," Morrigan said, her eyes flashing as she moved to Wulfric's side.

"It was in Val Royeaux, where we stopped to look at the maps." Fergus frowned. "It didn't seem relevant."

"No doubt it isn't," Wulfric said, his eyes lighting with humor as he put his arm around Morrigan and nuzzled her cheek. She tried to keep up a pretense of annoyance at the physical affection displayed before Fergus, little more than a stranger to her, but it faded as Wulfric pressed kisses along her jaw.

Fergus turned his eyes away, looking down at Jennie. He was overjoyed to see her eyes flutter. "Jennie."

She blinked determinedly, pushing at his hand and sitting up. What a contrast to Morrigan's actions, he thought, his heart sinking. Then he chided himself for the feeling. What had he expected, that she would open her eyes and avow some previously unknown affection for him? It seemed that was exactly what he wanted—for her to feel the same rush of relief and affection on seeing him that he had when it was clear she had awakened. Perhaps his feelings went deeper than he had realized.

He stood up, holding out a hand to her to help her stand, pushing away the possible meanings of his discovery to be considered later. "Are you all right?"

Jennie nodded, but when he would have let her hand go she tightened her grip, clinging to him. "Where are we?" she asked. 

Fergus followed her gaze, unconsciously tensing for the first moment she saw Wulfric. The younger man topped Fergus's height by a head, and had always been ostentatiously muscular of build. Fergus had never particularly doubted his own attractions for women, but it was true that women had flocked to his little brother like bees to a nectar-rich flower from the earliest moments of Wulfric's sexual awakening, and, yes, once or twice Fergus had been glad that he was happily married by the time Wulfric came into the fullness of his looks and manner.

That Wulfric was now the one happily married didn't seem to matter—it was Jennie's reaction that had Fergus holding his breath.

"Your brother, I take it?" 

He nodded.

"They suit each other."

Fergus let out his breath, squeezing her hand. Jennie glanced at him curiously, but she squeezed back before letting go.

"Hello." Little Arthur stepped out in front of Wulfric, looking up at Jennie. "Did you get bitten?"

"Is that what happened?" She smiled at him. "Apparently so. Those are quite some bugs you have here."

"Wait till you see the big ones!" The enthusiasm in the little boy's voice was infectious, and Fergus found himself smiling.

Wulfric and Morrigan emerged from their embrace, both pairs of parents' eyes glancing quickly and in alarm at the boy, now out of their reach, in a manner that brought their fears home to Fergus more than words could have.

The ring he wore had lost its heat, feeling almost cold on his finger now. He took it off, holding it out to Morrigan. "I think you can take this back now."

"It has done its work well." She reached for it, tucking it into a concealed pocket of the furs she wore.

"I understand it was warning me of some kind of danger; I came as quickly as I could. What's the danger?"

Jennie was bending over, listening gravely to Arthur's explanation of the properties of his favorite insects, but Fergus could see her eyes lift to Wulfric and Morrigan as he asked the question.

Morrigan sighed. "Flemeth."  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Oghren was thrashing around in his cocoon, moaning in his sleep. Varric looked over at him, frowning. "You think we should let Rowdy loose?"

"In my estimation, the only further danger he poses is to the one who blackmailed him," Fenris said, scowling at Bethany. She'd been propped up against a tree, but she was still trussed up securely. Glaring at Fenris, she made a few muffled noises through her gag, but no one paid attention to her. The Dalish elf sat on the other side of the clearing from her, also bound and gagged. It hadn't taken long after the elf woke up for Zev to notice how all the members of the party seemed swayed by the elf's flowing, smooth tones and to make sure that well-trained bardic voice was silenced, if only temporarily.

"He might harm himself if we cut him free," Anders said, watching Oghren's movements as the dwarf worked toward consciousness with a troubled look.

Isabela nodded in agreement. "Let me talk to him when he wakes up, see if he still feels like killing all of us, or if capturing Miss Traitor over there makes him feel like hurting himself instead."

"Very well," Zev said. "Isabela, you are on Oghren duty." He glanced up at the sky, the sun high above and beating down on them. "As we do not know how much longer we will be here, or the length of the daylight in this country, I suggest we all take this opportunity to rest. I will take the first watch over the other prisoners. If you will take the second, my diminutive friend?" 

Varric nodded. "Wake me when you need me, Flash." He winced, grinning. "I walked into that one, didn't I?"

Zev's quirked eyebrow and the gleam in his eye said all that was needed.

"Get a room," Isabela called from across the clearing.

"He wishes." Varric chuckled, letting the tent flap fall behind him.

Fenris and Anders had gone into their respective tents. Oghren's thrashing had ceased, replaced by loud snores.

"You may as well rest," Zev said softly. "I can wake you if he requires your attention. Or the sudden silence will."

Isabela stood up, stretching. They were warm-weather creatures, but neither was used to the relentless heat and humidity of this jungle. "I think I will. Call out if you need anything."

Zev paced slowly, out of long habit avoiding anything that looked like a pattern. He watched the sky in the direction Morrigan had flown. He studied the two Grey Wardens intently. But the long day and the heat and the monotonous drone of the insects was taking its toll on him; his eyelids were drooping. When he heard a rustling sound in the trees he whirled around, but it was only a bird, albeit one brilliantly plumaged in red and yellow, that soared into the sky. The jungle was making him jumpy, he decided. It was uncomfortable not being able to discern which sounds belonged there and which did not. 

"Fly well, small one," he murmured, watching the bird as it disappeared in the distance. 

The invasion, when it came, was soundless anyway. Something stung his neck, and as a haze filled his vision a figure clad in leather armor tinted green to bled into the jungle's natural hues dropped lightly from the tree above his head. "Sleep well, my friend," said a familiar accented voice, and he knew nothing more.


	22. You Can Always Count on Me

Zevran woke to a pounding headache that was not alleviated by the sounds of quarreling within the clearing. 

"I say we keep him tied up. Who knows what he might do?"

"You are a fool, mage. Anyone can see he feels remorseful and would like to assist."

"Both of you shut up and let me think how to track them."

"Let them talk, Rivaini. At least they drown out the damned bugs."

There was a muffled set of grunts and groans that must have come from Oghren. 

Zev sat up, clutching his head. He was utterly mortified. That he, Zevran Arainai, had been taken by surprise like an amateur! He remembered the voice he had heard; Leliana was a skilled professional herself. Nonetheless, she should not have been able to sneak up on him.

"Oh, good, Flash is awake." Varric appeared in Zev's field of vision.

Blinking hard, Zev managed to focus his eyes on the dwarf's luxuriant chest hair. "Perhaps you would like to make certain?" he suggested, the flirting coming automatically to his lips, neatly covering the relief he felt that Leliana's mission to their camp had not harmed Varric.

The dwarf grasped one of Zev's braids, tugging on it. He chuckled when Zev gasped, rather more theatrically than was necessary. "Yep, he's awake."

Zev got to his feet, his head swimming slightly with the movement. Whatever Leliana had used had been quite powerful—although Varric's casual touch, the first approach to an overture the dwarf had made, was equally unsettling to Zev's equilibrium. He set aside the rather surprising effect the dwarf had on him to consider later. "What is the status of our situation?" he asked.

"The Wardens are gone; those who removed them have vanished without a trace," Fenris replied. 

"Don't say that!" Isabela snapped. "I'm sure there's a trace—I just can't find it."

Oghren groaned again, struggling in his cocoon of spider's webbing. Zev pulled his dagger, bending down and slitting the cocoon open.

"No!" Anders shouted, but Zev ignored him, offering Oghren his hand and helping the dwarf up.

Spitting bits of spider's silk into his beard, Oghren tried to talk. Zev took out the flask he carried, handing it to his friend. Oghren guzzled the contents, smacking his lips. "Thanks."

"Anytime." Zev took his flask back, drained to the last drop. 

"Redhead got what she wanted," Oghren observed. "Always does."

"Not always, my friend."

"No, I s'pose you're right. The witch beat 'er out on what she really wanted, an' she's still madder'n a bronto at dinnertime facin' a plate full o' surfacer greens."

Zev laughed. "It is good to have you back."

"No hard feelin's?" Oghren scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot.

"Your family was threatened, I understand?"

Oghren nodded.

"Then you did what you had to. And badly, at that. Had you put your full effort into it, many of us would now be dead."

"True that!" Oghren's face brightened, and it positively lit as he looked around at the others, all of them looking as though his sudden turn was forgiven and forgotten. Except Anders, who fidgeted and refused to meet his friend's eyes. "Sparklefingers?"

"Good to have you back," Anders said. "Think I'll get some water." He turned his back on all of them, walking toward the river with a bucket in his hand. The water still roiled with the activities of the vicious creatures beneath it. Anders reached his hand out, palm down, over the river and spoke three words in what sounded like Tevinter. Immediately the water calmed, and he bent to fill the bucket.

"He may still be useful to us," Fenris said. All four sets of eyes turned to him in surprise, and he shrugged.

"Real shame," Oghren said. He spat on the ground, watching with fascination as the insects swarmed over the bubbly patch of liquid before he looked back up at Anders. "Damn Fade spirit hadn't o' come along ..."

"All well and good, but what do we do now?" Isabela asked. "Do we chase the Chantry and win back the Wardens, or warn Wulfric?"

"None of the above," Zev said with decision. "If the Chantry wanted us dead, they would already have killed us. I see no reason to want to retrieve the Grey Wardens, who most assuredly did wish to harm us. And we have no way of contacting Wulfric."

"So what do you suggest we do?" Anders asked as he set the bucket down, his voice subtly, but clearly, disdainful.

"I suggest that we wait."

Varric produced a deck of cards. "Wicked Grace, anyone?"  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bethany had been torn as to whether it was worth struggling or not, as gloved hands had lifted her in the air, still bound, and carried her along. Tree branches whipped at her face, and she was actually relieved to be gagged as otherwise she'd have had a hard time keeping her mouth from filling with bugs. She could hear Thrand being carried along behind her, groaning as he, too, was borne through the air, and decided that since they had both been stolen from the camp, their situation was likely to improve. Holding herself as still as she could, she closed her eyes to protect them from the twigs and leaves that slapped her face and waited to be put down.

At last the motion stopped, and she was placed carefully upright, the bonds that held her cut. Bethany opened her eyes, rubbing her wrists to bring the sensation back to her hands. Magic sparked from her fingertips as the blood rushed back into them. She could see the masked figures who had carried her from her sister's camp step back, the eyes visible through the slits in their hoods widening as she ran through her forms, fire and ice and lightning appearing and disappearing in her hands. 

Thrand came up next to her, his dark eyes wary. "You know these people?"

"No."

"Of course you do not!" One of the figures stepped in front of them, ripping off the her hood to reveal a beautiful woman with flame-red hair and large, limpid blue eyes. Her voice was musical and lightly Orlesian accented, and Bethany felt herself relaxing as the woman spoke. "I am known as Sister Nightingale, but you may call me Leliana. You must be wondering why we brought you here."

"We?" Thrand's voice was sharp, and Bethany stiffened, angry at herself for letting a trained bard work her magic in her mind.

"The Chantry."

"What does the Chantry want with a Grey Warden mage?" Bethany asked.

Leliana nodded. "That is a difficulty, to be sure. It would be better if you were not a mage. But you are the Champion's sister, and that counts for much."

Bethany scowled. Again, it was Jennie who opened the door, Jennie who her own worth was valued against. "I am a Grey Warden. We have no family ties."

"You forget, I know much of the Wardens; I know precisely how flexible that particular guideline is."

"In my case, it happens to be true. Jennie Hawke is no more sister to me than you are."

Thrand made a small noise next to her, and Bethany pursed her lips, annoyed again that she had let Leliana's words provoke her. The woman was well trained, there was no question about that.

"What is it that you want?" Thrand asked Leliana, his own voice melodious.

The redhead smiled at him, a hint of a challenge lighting her eyes. "We could trade secrets," she said. "The Dalish have much to teach, and I was trained by those who had achieved the pinnacle of what a bard can do."

Contempt was written on the elf's face, his answer to her suggestion plain.

Leliana sighed. "Very well, then. A shame, really. We could have taught each other so much."

Two of the hooded figures grasped Thrand by the arms, hauling him away from Bethany and toward the depths of the forest, shadowed in the waning light of day.

"No!" Bethany cried out, and the figures stopped, impervious to Thrand's struggles.

"Can we not be reasonable?" Leliana asked plaintively.

"You haven't even said what you want."

"Your cooperation, that's all. We are working toward the same goal, you and I."

"And that is?"

"Return of the traitor Wulfric Cousland to the Grey Wardens where he belongs, and the removal of the apostate bitch he's taken up with." Leliana's voice and eyes were hard now, the bardic talents lost for once in her true emotions.

"And the child?" Warden records indicated there was a child; Wulfric had spoken too much while in his cups at least once.

"The child will go to the Chantry."

"Very well. The Wardens have no need of children; we aren't even allowed to have them, as a rule."

"Then we understand each other?" Leliana clapped her hands. "Splendid." She looked over Bethany's shoulders at the hooded figures holding Thrand. "Berndt, Mikhail, let him go."  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The word "Flemeth" hung in the air as the four of them looked at each other.

Jennie frowned at Morrigan. "I thought you didn't know Flemeth was alive. You certainly indicated that when we met." 

"I was not aware that she had corporeal form, that is true." Morrigan turned to Wulfric. "Apparently we have our new friend here to thank for that—she carried a piece of Flemeth from Lothering and set her free in Kirkwall."

Wulfric's mouth tightened, his eyes hardening suspiciously as he looked at Jennie.

"She didn't know what she was doing," Fergus said.

"Around my mother, few do. Flemeth was a threat before—it is difficult, if not impossible, to truly kill her—but with a body that she can shift, with which she can—" She broke off with a significant glance at Arthur, and then looked worriedly out at the sky. "This may no longer be the safest place. If she has form, she can fly."

"Back to the forest camp, then?" Wulfric said. He reached out, taking Morrigan's hand in his.

"I think that's best."

"What do you want us to do?" Fergus asked.

"For the moment, just be here. There will be time to plan when we have everyone together and can assess our position." Wulfric's shoulders straightened, his face serious as he considered the options, and Fergus saw in him the man who had defeated the Blight. It was admittedly strange to be considering his baby brother to be the more experienced tactician. "I'm sorry not to be able to fill you in more fully at the moment, but there should be some time later."

"Where are we going?" Jennie asked.

"To a camp in the forest. Not the jungle," Wulfric clarified, the hint of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth at Fergus's grimace. "This is much nicer and cooler. Not quite as cool as it is up here, of course, but still, an improvement."

"Then can we retrieve the others?"

"Tomorrow."

"If we could cease the questioning, assistance packing all this up would be appreciated," Morrigan said.

"Can I help?" Jennie asked.

Morrigan appraised her coolly. "You are still weak from the fever, but if you can keep the young one occupied, my task will go faster." She raised an eyebrow at her son, her eyes twinkling. "His constant stream of questions are less helpful than he imagines them to be."

Arthur giggled, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, and Jennie smiled, holding out her hand to him. "Come tell me about this forest camp."

When the women were out of earshot, Fergus turned to his brother in annoyance. "You're very cryptic, Wulfric. I left behind the management of the entire Teyrnir and journeyed all the way out here—"

"You think I would have called for your help if this was something I could have managed on my own? Damn it, Fergus, if you're not willing to help—"

"I'm perfectly willing! I just want to know what the situation is."

"So you can take charge and act like the big brother, swooping in to save the day?" 

Fergus looked at him without responding, and Wulfric's eyes dropped. 

"I'm sorry, that was unworthy. You don't deserve that. It's just—I've tried so hard to keep them safe, but I don't have their powers. I'm just a man, tasked with the protection of two magical beings who need me desperately, and who are my entire world. I—" Wulfric stopped again, biting his lip. "I'm sorry. Again. I don't mean to be insensitive."

"I know." Fergus closed his hand around his brother's arm reassuringly. "We'll do everything we can. The people who have come to help you have a number of talents that they've put at your disposal. One way or the other, we'll win, I promise."

Wulfric nodded, and squeezed Fergus's arm in return, but he didn't look convinced.


	23. Born to Be Wild

Most of the players had been knocked out of the impromptu Wicked Grace tournament by the time the stars shone in the heated sky above them. Anders had refused to play at all, opting instead to stand staring off into the forest deep in thought. Oghren had lost on the first hand. There was no subtlety in the dwarf at all. He hadn't appeared unhappy about losing, and he clearly felt better when Isabela also lost—presumably on purpose—and joined him in his tent with a bottle of rum. The sounds of bawdy sea chanties mixed with downright raunchy dwarven marching songs gave way to loud snores in Oghren's deep tones and surprising whistles in Isabela's slightly higher voice.

"Didn't know Rivaini was such a loud sleeper," Varric remarked, glancing at a card before placing it in his hand.

Zev chuckled. "Perhaps that is why she so rarely allows anyone to sleep with her."

"Good point." Varric laid a different card, one that hadn't been in his hand a moment ago, on the pile in front of him.

"Do you truly imagine he did not see that?" Fenris asked. He was pacing the perimeter of the camp, his markings pulsing nervously, occasionally pausing to watch part of the game.

"Of course he knows I saw it," Zev said. "Part of the game is lost if no one cheats." He captured Varric's card with one of his own, deftly palming a card from the discard pile as he did so, and cast a grin up at Fenris. "We cannot all have your remarkable forthrightness."

"Hmph." Fenris shook his head, disappearing into the shadows.

Zev watched Fenris move away, part of his mind on the elf's rather ridiculous walk and how it did not detract in the least from his enticements, the other part on the sounds of the jungle around them and where Leliana might have gone with her prizes. He managed to notice Varric taking his turn at the card game, however, and casually dropped another card on top of Varric's, winning the game.

"Double or nothing?" Varric asked, staring sourly at the cards as he dug into his pocket for his coin pouch. 

"What would you say to betting with your clothing?"

"With all these bugs around? I'd say no."

"But if they were not?" Zev waited, not entirely aware that he was holding his breath. This dwarf in front of him was intriguing, infuriating, and apparently impervious to all attempts at seduction, even by such a skilled artisan as Zevran Arainai. He was rapidly progressing from being a mere challenge to being something Zev needed to possess ... and what was worse, from the smirk on that stubbled face, he knew it.

"Ask me then." Varric picked up the cards, shuffling them a few times before stowing them away. 

"What will you say?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

In a swift, graceful movement, Zev was on the other side of the bare patch they had used as a card table, easing his slender body down next to Varric's, his lips close to the dwarf's ear. "I would, indeed. Would you say 'Please relieve me of this uncomfortable coat, Zevran?'"

"It ..." Varric's voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it before trying again. "It doesn't seem likely."

Zev's fingers toyed with the luxuriant growth of chest hair revealed by Varric's open shirt, finding it surprisingly soft to the touch. "Would you perform an erotic dance as you stripped for me?"

"Have you ever seen a dwarf do an erotic dance? It's not pretty." Varric shifted away, but Zev followed, leaning even farther over.

"Would you, later, write the tale of the dwarf and his elven lover and the pleasures they took?" His mouth was practically touching Varric's now, his breath floating across Varric's lips, which opened as if to swallow Zev's words. That was all the invitation Zev needed to close the small distance between them, to press his long body against Varric's and to capture the dwarf's mouth with his own.

Zev had expected Varric to pull away, or to duck the embrace and make a joke. He was shocked and aroused when instead Varric met him tongue for tongue, the dwarf's kiss strong and sure. A hunger rose in Zev. He wanted to know more of this man's taste, to get closer still. A moan was wrenched from someone's throat. To Zev's utter surprise, it was his own.

"Well, this is a surprise." The voice from behind him was female, but in the fog that filled his head, he couldn't place it immediately.

The following voice, on the other hand, was all too distinguishable. "Clearly, you do not know Zevran. Cease man-handling that dwarf at once, you ridiculous elf."

Few things cast icy water on passion the way Morrigan in a temper could. Zev groaned, pulling himself away from Varric with some difficulty. He blinked to clear his head, glancing at the dwarf to gauge Varric's reaction. Was he having as much trouble as Zev was recovering from the passionate moment they'd shared? 

To Zev's consternation, the dwarf's eyes glinted with something much like triumph. A challenge, then, a call to a duel of seduction? Zev wanted to grab him by the lapels of that ridiculous coat, haul him into the wilderness, and finish what they'd just started ... and it was clear from the smirk curving Varric's lips that the dwarf knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Where is my sister?" Jennie Hawke interrupted Zev's lascivious thoughts, just as she had the kiss. He couldn't help narrowing his eyes as he turned to look at her, although the memory of what they had allowed to happen to her sister caused his momentary annoyance to turn to shame.

"She has been taken, Hawke," Fenris said from the darkness.

"Taken? By whom?"

Now it was Morrigan's gaze Zev avoided from shame. He cleared his throat. "By Leliana. And, we presume, others of the Chantry."

"Leliana? Here? You bumbling imbeciles!" 

Zev steeled himself against the step backward he wanted to take. Morrigan's golden eyes blazed with fury, the heat of her anger superseding even that of the jungle itself. Her fists were clenched at her side, her mouth working as she tried to find words. And then, suddenly, the wolf stood there in her place, its fur bristling. It tilted its head back, an unearthly howl shaking the entire forest with the force of Morrigan's rage.   
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The distant howl called strangely to something inside Bethany. She felt a quiver of excitement, and a longing to change, to alter, to respond to that call with a howl of her own. She crossed her arms over herself to cover the sudden tremors that shook her as she fought the compulsion. Was it even possible for a human to change into a wolf? Such ideas were things of legend. But there was no question that she was stirred by it, like the brush of butterfly wings in her stomach.

Leliana came to stand next to her. 

"What do you think that is?" Bethany asked. It should have been a relief to hear something as normal as a wolf's howl in the depths of the strange forest, but there was nothing normal about that wolf. She felt if she listened hard enough, she might be able to make out what the wolf was trying to say. 

"If I had to guess," Leliana said, "Morrigan knows I am here. Can you tell how she missed me?"

"Morrigan? But she is—"

"She is a shapeshifter."

Bethany stilled the excitement that leaped in her. So it was possible. She longed more than ever to be able to respond to that wild call.

"Yes," Leliana said darkly in response to Bethany's silence. "She has dabbled in a number of magics that would be disapproved of by the Chantry."

"You seem to hate her a great deal."

"Hate is not of the Maker. He would wish us to enjoy the beauty of this world, and to hold onto love where we find it."

"Then why have you come all the way out here?"

Leliana turned, her blue eyes searching Bethany's as best they could in the darkness. "Why have you?"

"Because Wulfric Cousland is a Grey Warden."

"And?"

"The First Warden wants him brought back. Cousland defeated the Blight single-handed; he fought the Archdemon and killed it and he lived. No Warden has ever done that before. The First Warden wants to know what happened." 

"So you are here only because the First Warden wishes it? Not to do with your sister?" Leliana glanced at Bethany, a softness in her eyes.

Without intending to, Bethany found herself speaking about her pride in being chosen to lead such an expedition, as a mage and a fairly junior Warden; her desire to show Jennie that she, too, could lead a team and command the loyalty of her subordinates; her exultation in the use of her power in combat. And Leliana listened eagerly, nodding in all the right places, offering soothing encouragement whenever the flow of Bethany's speech slowed. When she had finished, Bethany felt that the other woman truly understood what it had been like to grow up suppressing everything that made her unique and how it felt to finally be able to be herself, unfettered by the Chantry's dictates and the overprotectiveness of her family.

Only much later did Bethany realize Leliana had never answered her question, and she could have kicked herself for falling victim, once again, to a pair of sympathetic blue eyes and the feeling of being listened to.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The wolf's howl ceased after what seemed like a long time, and Morrigan resumed her normal shape. She turned her golden eyes on Jennie. "Flemeth. Grey Wardens. The Chantry. Could you have brought any more danger with you to this forest?"

Anders stepped forward. "Leave her alone! I don't know who you think you are, but it isn't Hawke's fault."

"Let it go, Anders. Morrigan's right, we weren't as careful as we should have been. I'm sorry." Jennie considered reminding the other woman that the Chantry had kidnapped her sister, but given that the last time they'd been together Bethany had tried to kill her, Jennie thought it was just as well that her sister was in captivity. 

The witch pursed her lips. "I will have to accept that, not that it does any good."

"Seems to me the real question is, what do we do now?" Varric straightened his coat. "They know we're here; they'll be coming back in the morning. We can't do much overnight, not in this darkness, and we sure can't all travel the way Witchy Woman here does." He grinned. "Too bad Hawke can't live up to her name."

Jennie smiled. "True, although I don't think my becoming a real hawk would help carry anyone out of the forest."

"We must move tonight," Morrigan said.

"Are you crazy?" Anders asked. "We can barely see."

"We do not need to," Morrigan said, barely glancing at the mage. She appeared to be listening to some sound from the depths of the jungle, and nodded in satisfaction. "I believe we will have assistance shortly."

"Assistance?" Varric asked, looking around him nervously. "What kind?"

"You will find out when it arrives, dwarf. Meanwhile, this camp will not pack itself." Her tone was uncompromising, and they all hurried to start packing. Since no one else volunteered, Jennie went to wake Oghren and Isabela. The two were shoulder to shoulder, sprawled on the ground. Isabela held the bottle of rum and Oghren was still holding his flask. Jennie couldn't help smiling as she nudged Isabela with her toe.

The pirate opened her eyes. "Hawke! You're still among the living!"

"Was there that much doubt?"

"To judge from the look on tall, dark, and masterful's face when he went off with you, he thought there was."

"Fergus was worried about me?"

"'Worried'? No. Terrified, more like. Where is he, anyway?"

"He's back with his brother, catching up."

Isabela sighed, getting nimbly to her feet. "How is Wulfric? He was quite the stallion when I knew him."

"Stallion's not a bad word. Big, half-naked, long hair."

"Half-naked," Isabela echoed with a sigh. "But taken, more's the pity. And Morrigan doesn't share. What about you, sweet thing? When you and Fergus get ready to ride the cresting wave, would you care to have an extra hand at the wheel?"

"Me? And Fergus? Where do you get that?" Jennie could feel her cheeks flushing. 

"From the way he looks at you when you aren't watching. And from the way you refuse to look at him, especially when he's not watching." Isabela pinched Jennie's cheek affectionately. "You let me know if you need any pointers, because you're never going to land him if you're constantly running away."

The pirate leaned over Oghren and began the process of waking the dwarf from his drunken sleep, and Jennie hastily left the tent. She hadn't considered Fergus's kiss in some time, and had ruthlessly shoved away from herself the way she'd felt when she opened her eyes in the cave and saw him looking down at her with what she was sure had been tenderness. Reminded of it now, she was in as much turmoil as if the kiss had just happened. She was grateful when Morrigan took her by the shoulder and impatiently pointed her toward the horses. It was good to have something to focus on.

The camp was mostly packed up when a shrill whistle sounded in the jungle. The sound of heavy footsteps through the brush caught the attention of the whole party, and all of them gradually ceased what they were doing and stood watching as the sound grew louder. Morrigan watched the darkness with an expression that seemed like relief.

At last a large man emerged from the darkness. Jennie's eyes were immediately drawn to his nose, which was elongated and wide at the base, the nostrils flaring. Like Morrigan and Wulfric, he wore furs around his waist, but otherwise had no covering other than shining green scales that covered his body. Four other men, all with scales of varying colors, followed him. They spoke to Morrigan in a low hissing tone, a language Jennie had never heard before. It was a long-drawn-out conversation; Morrigan's body language was respectful. If Jennie had to guess, she was bartering with the men.

After a few minutes, Morrigan turned to the rest of them. "These are Devren, Koriz, Jitzal, Foric, and Revese, members of the Driazi, a tribe native to the Tirashan. They heard my cry and came to investigate, and have agreed to help you all move to a safer and more convenient location, not far from our own camp."

"In exchange for what?" Varric asked.

"Not that it makes any difference, dwarf, but I offer healing and other magics that the Driazi do not have access to. There are no mages among them, at least, not the type we are used to." 

"I see. Anything the rest of us can do?"

Morrigan looked at Varric in surprise. "Perhaps. When we reach the campsite, I will ask them."

Jennie stared up into the face of the biggest one, Koriz, as he came over and took the bundled tent from her arms. This she had not expected ... but why not? Surely if the Qunari existed, so could other more unusual races. Isabela's eyes were following the five men as they moved around the camp, nakedly appraising them, and Jennie noticed with some amusement that Fenris was watching Isabela, his expression dark. The moment reminded her of Fergus, and she remembered again what it had felt like to be held in his arms. She shivered. There was no question that she wanted him to kiss her again, but it was equally certain that it was a bad idea. He was the Teyrn of Highever, she reminded herself, and she was little more than a squatter, holding onto a house and a title that had never felt like her own.

With a sigh she put the thoughts from her mind, taking the reins of her horse and joining the line moving through the forest, deeper and farther into the heart of darkness.


	24. Truth Is

As they moved farther into the Tirashan, the jungle gradually gave way to giant trees that towered far into the air. Vines no longer reached out to tangle around their ankles and trip them; the ground was covered instead with a dense carpet of decaying leaves. The sounds of the forest continued to be unusual—the rustlings of large creatures mingled with sharp cries and deep, bellowing calls. The Driazi strode along beside them, looming over them all. The tall, scaled men were alert to every sound around them, but completely ignored any attempts by Jennie and her companions to draw them into any type of communication. Morrigan flew above their heads, equally unapproachable. 

"I have no idea where we're going," Jennie remarked to Zev as the elf drew up alongside her.

"Nor do I." He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "Do not be concerned; we were brought here for a reason, but that reason was surely not to harm us."

"How can you be so sure? If her family's safety required one of our lives, do you really think Morrigan would balk at that?" Jennie asked. Had it been her family, she could imagine what she would be willing to do. What she had done, in fact, when it was necessary, and for people she was far less devoted to than Morrigan was to her husband and child.

Zev glanced at her sharply and then away, and Jennie sighed. It was sometimes hard to remember how little any of her companions knew about the bonds of family. Hers wasn't what she would have called warm, but they had been fanatically loyal to each other as long as her father lived, and those emotions were unforgettable. It was why she couldn't be sorry she'd been taken out of the fight before she could properly retaliate against her sister. Anxiously she twisted to look over her shoulder into the deep gloom behind her. Where was Bethany? What had the Chantry's people done with her? Or to her?

"Leliana took your sister for a reason," Zev said, almost reluctantly. "Our Chantry mouse does nothing without purpose."

"What could she want from Bethany?"

"Power? Alliance? Strength? Knowledge of you?"

Any of those were possibilities, Jennie had to admit.

Suddenly one of the Driazi was towering over her, his black eyes blazing. "Sssh!"

Immediately, Jennie and Zevran ceased speaking, and indeed, ceased moving, both of them listening carefully. A thudding sound was coming toward them. Ahead, all the others had stopped as well, their native companions pulling them this way and that to make a space. The thudding was louder now; Jennie could recognize it as the footsteps of some large creature. She felt the strong hand of the Driazi on her shoulder, holding her still, and her hand in turn tightened on the reins of the horse she was leading. She could hear the cracking of tree branches now, high and sharp above the dull boom of the running feet, and suddenly there it was, the largest creature she had ever seen, covered in a tough hide that looked greenish in the dim light of the torches, running past them on two huge legs as though they weren't there. It had a mouth full of giant sharp teeth that dripped saliva in its path. As they all stood perfectly still, no sound or movement, the creature didn't even turn its head in their direction. It knocked two trees down in its path before disappearing into the darkness.

Jennie held herself still until the pressure on her shoulder eased. Then she looked up at the Driazi—Jitzal, if she remembered right. "What was that?"

He was still watching the trees where the monster had gone. When Jennie asked her question again it seemed to bring him back to their current location and he looked down at her, shaking his head, and pointed ahead of them, where the others were already on the move again. 

Jennie sighed. Talking to these guys was apparently going to be harder than talking to the Qunari had been.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Isabela's eyes were glued to the rear end of the big scaly man in front of her. Something bulged in the back of his furs, and she was highly curious to find out what that was. So far, he wouldn't let her within arm's reach. The Driazi might not speak common, but Isabela's special language appeared to be universal.

"Take care. Your eyes appear to be in danger of removing themselves from your head."

She raised an eyebrow. "Jealous, Fenris?"

"I do not like to see you making a spectacle of yourself."

"Then shut your eyes. Making a spectacle of myself is what I do best." She sidled a little closer to him; she could practically feel the buzz of the lyrium emanating from his skin. "Or would you prefer a more private spectacle? That could be arranged."

Fenris was silent for a long moment. "This is foolishness," he said at last.

"What is?"

"This ..." He gestured at the air between them. "You should refocus your energies elsewhere."

He was right. She really should. What was she doing, throwing herself so shamelessly at a man who rarely gave any indication he had an interest in her? Then she thought of the deep growly sound of his voice when he'd complained about her staring at the Driazi. The leashed power hinted at by that tone was the most tantalizing excitement Isabela had ever encountered. She wanted to know what lay at the heart of the storm inside him, to taste the calm that lay on the other side, to ride the waves of sensation in his arms. And she wouldn't—couldn't—stop until she had succeeded.

"My energies are focused right where I want them," she said, her voice less seductive and more determined than she had intended.

Fenris looked at her with troubled eyes, then glanced around them. No one was in earshot other than the Driazi, but Fenris still spoke so softly Isabela had to practically walk on his toes to hear him. Not that she was complaining about the proximity to his body, except insofar as she wasn't allowed to touch.

"This pursuit is more doomed than you imagine it to be."

"Why?"

"I—I cannot—"

Isabela suppressed the cry of dismay that rose to her lips. "You can't get it up?"

Fenris swallowed audibly, and she worried that her bluntness had scared him off, just when she was getting to the inner layer she'd wanted, deep-down, to glimpse again ever since the night they'd sat together in the crosstrees looking out at the ocean. But he continued, his voice even smaller. "It is worse than that, I am afraid."

"What could be worse than that?" She glanced over at him, and the mute misery in his eyes almost made her tell him to stop, that she didn't need to know whatever was torturing him this way. 

He went on before she could speak. "Danarius ... as you once suggested, he desired me to perform ... duties."

"I thought so." The thought wasn't as titillating as it had once been.

"But they only ... pleased him when they disgusted me. The more pain I felt—"

"That sick bastard."

Fenris gave a short bark of laughter. "Did you expect otherwise? I have not been dreading his return all these years because he once slapped my hand for reaching into a cookie jar."

"I didn't realize—"

"No. You didn't. He and Hadriana, they enjoyed my discomfort, and even more, they enjoyed ..."

"Making you like it?"

"Yes." The word was a steel knife-blade. "And now ... to be touched ... I ... it ... I would not want to involve you, in what I ..." He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. " _Venhedis_!" And he stalked off into the darkness.

Isabela was surprised to find that her eyes were damp as she watched him go.   
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fergus sat waiting for the rest of the party at the edge of his brother's camp-site. Wulfric was trying to soothe an over-excited Arthur and get him to bed, while the little boy whined fretfully that he wanted to stay up until Mama got back and meet everyone.

"They won't be camping here," Wulfric said, "and we will see them in the morning."

"Promise?"

Fergus had to smile at the tone. How he remembered Oren using that same pouty, stubborn tone. He could imagine Arthur's bottom lip protruding just the way Oren's had. How happy Oren would have been to have a cousin, he thought. But of course, Oren was gone, and even if he were still here, there was little chance Wulfric and Arthur could ever return to the civilized portions of Thedas.

"I promise," he heard Wulfric say, his tone firming up as he added, "but only if you go to sleep. Otherwise, you'll be staying right here all day tomorrow."

"But you said we could go see Koriz!"

"And we will. Once you get a good night's sleep."

"All right."

"Good-night, son."

"Good-night, Papa."

There were small sounds, familiar sounds—of a father and son embracing, of covers being tucked up. Fergus found tears wetting his cheeks and he reached up to wipe them away. He couldn't deny that part of his reluctance to move on, to start a new family, was the fear that he would never be able to hold a child, to tuck a child in at night, to give a child his first bath or training sword or pony, without picturing Oren and without wishing that the new child was the old one, or comparing the two. Perhaps if he'd had more than one to begin with, he could imagine giving equal parts of love to both. He missed his mother desperately—she would have known that answer, and so many more.

"Copper for your thoughts," Wulfric said, sinking gracefully to the ground next to Fergus.

"Just thinking about Mother."

"Ah." Wulfric grinned. "She'd be horrified at how I'm living."

"Don't sell her short. She'd see why, and she'd see how much your family cares for each other. That's all she would have wanted. It's me she'd be horrified by."

There was no disputing that, so Wulfric didn't. He stared out into the darkness, listening.

"Hear anything?" Fergus asked.

"Not yet. They'll be here." Then, after a pause, "Have you known her long?"

"Who?" 

"Don't be stupid."

"No, not long." 

"But you like her."

"I ... think so." It was strange sitting here letting Wulfric ask him questions about his love life. Fergus was more used to his little brother sneaking around to spy on him; this sudden equality between them was new, and bittersweet, since it could last only as long as the current crisis and then they'd have to go their separate ways. "You've done good, pup."

Wulfric glanced over at him, taking the old nickname for what it was, and letting the line of questioning die. "Thanks."

The leaves began to rustle, and Wulfric got to his feet. Fergus stood, also, and they watched the darkness for the first sign of their companions.


	25. Something to Talk About

Leliana stood in the midst of the deserted camp, her arms crossed over her chest. "I knew I should have attacked them immediately. I cannot believe I gave them time to get away."

"Why did you?" Bethany was as disappointed as the bard; she had hoped to capture her sister quickly, with the help of the Chantry's operatives. 

The other woman glanced at her, blue eyes narrowed, but didn't bother to respond. Turning to Thrand, she said impatiently, "Where have they gone?"

"It isn't difficult to tell. They left a trail the densest shemlen could follow." He didn't move to point it out, and Leliana smiled.

"Yes. I know."

"You were testing me?" The tone made it clear the Dalish didn't like that idea.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I felt the giant blazed trail was too obvious and wanted a second opinion. One I did not get, may I add."

"Hmph." Thrand bestirred himself, though, and began slowly circling the clearing, studying the ground. At last he straightened, turning to look at Leliana. A frown creased his fine features. "That is the only trail. They know you're following them, don't they?"

"Yes." Leliana frowned, too. "Perhaps they have set traps."

"None that I could detect."

"Maybe," Bethany said, tired of the two rogues and their superior attitudes, "they just didn't care. Maybe they're so sure of themselves that they don't think of you as a threat." 

They both looked her way briefly, but clearly didn't give much thought to her suggestion.

Leliana said, "Did they place traps in the trees?"

"No." He shook his head, trying to get rid of the cloud of bugs that buzzed around it. "The jungle itself may well be trap enough."

"Pardon me for the interruption, but once you reach them, what are you planning to do? They killed most of my team of very well-trained Wardens, may I remind you," Bethany said.

"I know how to handle my team." Leliana glanced at the set of Chantry operatives who waited, impassive, behind her. "We are more than a match for a ragtag group of civilians."

"These aren't just civilians. Anders and Oghren are Wardens, my sister and the Teyrn were in the army in Ferelden, and Zevran is an ex-Crow, or so you've said. Fenris was personal bodyguard to a Tevinter magister, and Isabela is used to keeping hundreds of men under control ... without using any of the obvious female weaponry. Not to mention what the Warden Commander and his woman are capable of, if even half of the stories I've heard about the Blight are to be believed. Well, I don't have to tell you about that, do I?" Bethany said, watching Leliana's face. The bard didn't speak. "So you see what I'm getting at—to think you can best such a team with a few Chantry zealots seems over-confident, at best."

"You do not know everything," Leliana said in a furious whisper, her Orlesian accent thickened. "You think you know, but you are as lost as all the others. The Chantry has power, great power, even here in the Wilderness."

"What kind of power? Are you a mage?" Bethany asked, filled with confusion.

"She's not a mage," Thrand said in a tone of derision. His eyes still rested on Leliana, his expression unreadable. "She knows something she hasn't shared with us, something that gives her an advantage over the Commander and his party."

Bethany did not like the sensation of being the slow child in between the two adults that she was getting from this conversation, but she had to admit, Thrand appeared to be right. "What do you know, Leliana? Tell me now." She didn't allow the magic to manifest itself in an obvious way, but she could feel her own powers gathering, and she suspected Leliana could, as well.

But the bard had regained control of herself. She shook her head. "I will tell you nothing. If you are required to know, you will be told later. For now, we will assume your sister was fool enough to leave her path wide open, and we will follow where they went. Come along." She snapped her fingers, and Bethany reluctantly fell into line.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In the confusion of making camp the night before, there had been little time for Wulfric to renew old acquaintances beyond a quick hug or handclasp. The two campsites weren't overly close to each other; Morrigan clearly felt the need to keep space between her family and those who had come to their aid. Fergus couldn't blame her—if his son was the manifestation of an old god, he wasn't sure he would trust anyone, either. He felt fortunate that he was allowed to camp with his brother's family. It appeared that Wulfric felt as he did, that their time together would necessarily be short and they should make the best of it while they could. But it meant that Fergus hadn't seen much of Jennie when the rest of the group had come in and camped.

The large, heavily scaled Driazi had been very helpful in setting up the other camp and had melted into the forest as soon as their assistance was no longer needed. Morrigan had flown with them to their home, thanking them for their help by using her magic to heal any sick or wounded members of the clan. She didn't return until late in the night. 

"Will we see them again?" Fergus asked Wulfric as they sat over breakfast. 

"No doubt we will. They're very polite, although a bit on the aloof side. They never let us forget whose home this is, that's for sure."

"How long have they been here?"

"Their creation myths indicate that they have lived here for hundreds of years. Their skin suggests that they have some kinship with the many large dragonish creatures who populate the forest; I have often speculated that the Driazi were once dragons, who have turned into men over time. 'Tis strange, however, that they have no magic." Morrigan's face was as animated as Fergus had ever seen it. 

"None whatsoever?"

"Not that I have seen any indication of. Perhaps long ago there were mages in their population and they have since died out, but if so, their existence has not been incorporated into the mythology."

Wulfric was watching his wife with undisguised admiration. "It still impresses me how quickly you learned their language, Morrigan. All this time, and I can only understand a few words. All the rest of it just sounds like hissing to me."

"It's easy, Papa! Listen." Arthur made some sounds that, indeed, sounded like a lot of hissing to Fergus's untrained ears.

"You have your mother's ear, my son." Wulfric smiled fondly at the little boy.

They finished their breakfast and ambled over to the other camp, where two of the Driazi were unrolling a long piece of what looked like a leaf for Varric to peruse. Morrigan made a sound of surprise, and Fergus glanced at her curiously.

"It is their timeline, the way they record their history. It is rare for them to show it to anyone, much less someone they've just met."

"Varric doesn't allow language barriers to get in the way of a good story," Jennie said, walking over to greet them. Her eyes skimmed over Fergus's face and she looked hastily away from him to Wulfric. "We've been waiting for you, Warden Commander." 

He winced, holding up a hand. "Please, Wulfric. I'm no longer commander of anything—" he glanced at Morrigan with a wink and a smile, earning a chuckle from his wife, "and I had more than my fill of being called Warden during the Blight."

"Our friend here spent the better part of a year beseeching everyone he met to call him by his first name," Zev commented. "With very little luck."

"I remember some of your alternatives got quite creative, Zev." 

"Ah, those good old days, kickin' and gougin' in the mud and the blood and the ale." Oghren stuck out a big meaty hand, and guffawed as Wulfric ostentatiously inspected it before shaking it. "Glad to see ya made good."

"This reunion is very nice, I'm certain, but we have important topics to discuss," Morrigan said, forestalling whatever Isabela had been about to say. The pirate grinned, not daunted in the slightest, and took a seat on a low log, her knees jacked up high enough to display everything that lay under her short tunic.

As far as Fergus could tell, Anders had yet to acknowledge Wulfric—or vice versa—and they didn't look at each other as the mage took up a stance at the back of the group. Fenris stood on the other side, placed so that he could watch Anders and keep an eye on Isabela at the same time. Varric glanced in their direction, clearly torn between deciphering the Driazi's timeline and listening to what Wulfric had to say. The allure of the unfamiliar was apparently too strong, however, and the dwarf stayed where he was. The occasional deep hiss floated across the camp, indicating that Varric was attempting to speak the Driazi's language. The unmistakable laughter that followed each attempt needed no translation. But Varric's willingness to try appeared to go a long way toward endearing him to the tall men with the shimmering scales, and even Morrigan glanced his direction with approval.

Fergus found himself sitting on the ground next to Jennie, his knee close enough to her leg that he imagined he could feel the heat of her body. Did she feel it, too? He couldn't tell from her expression or her body language.

Morrigan shooed Arthur across the clearing to assist Varric in his anthropological discussion. Once the little boy was out of earshot and safely engrossed in the storytelling, she cleared her throat, looking down at them all. "At last you are all here. Not that we required quite so many—"

Wulfric put his arm around her, his voice overriding hers. "What my love meant to say was 'thank you for coming, we need your help.'" He grinned at Morrigan, who shifted her feet restlessly. 

"Indeed. I am remiss in my manners." Her tone indicated that she found the niceties a waste of time.

"There is a reason they call her the Witch of the Wilds," Zev offered. He grinned as Morrigan glared at him.

"What kind of help do you need?" Anders asked.

Wulfric glanced at the mage, his eyes darkened in a way Fergus didn't like. For some reason, Wulfric wasn't comfortable with Anders being in the party, it appeared. "We have reason to believe that we are going to be attacked. By Flemeth."

"Didn't we kill that old biddy?" Oghren asked. "Sliced her up proper, we did."

"You must have been drunk," Fenris said, frowning at the dwarf. "It is surprising that you can lift your ax, much less remember whom you killed with it."

"If there is a way to permanently kill my mother, I do not know of it," Morrigan said. She added in a darker tone, "Yet."

"So what'd she do, then?" Oghren's forehead wrinkled as he tried to make sense of having killed someone and yet not killed them. In the dwarf's world, dead was dead.

Jennie cleared her throat. "She hitched a ride to Kirkwall. In an amulet."

"Oh." Oghren subsided, apparently deciding that was as clear an explanation as he was going to get.

"What is it that Flemeth wants, exactly?" Isabela asked. Her eyes were focused on Morrigan's face. It was always a bit startling to Fergus to see the sharp, focused brain of the ship's captain inside the fun-loving hedonist facade Isabela liked to display.

Morrigan's gaze shifted across the camp to rest on Arthur. The little boy was laughing at something Varric had said. His face, lit with humor, was achingly beautiful and Fergus couldn't help the thoughts of Oren that leaped to mind. He didn't think he had let those thoughts manifest, but something of what was in his mind must have communicated itself to Jennie, for she reached for his hand, squeezing it. When she would have let go, Fergus held on, the physical contact anchoring him in the here and now and setting the ghosts in his thoughts at bay, at least for the moment.

"Just because he is your child and therefore her grandchild?" Fenris asked. His tone indicated he suspected that wasn't the only reason.

"Do not be foolish," Morrigan snapped.

"There is more to it, but ... I'm not sure if you'd all believe me, and it may not be safe for you to know." Wulfric raked his fingers through his long hair, looking worriedly around the circle of faces. "Arthur is ... special."

"The boy is obviously a mage; power emanates from him." Fenris shivered slightly, the lyrium markings along his arms flashing in the sunlight. "That is no doubt enough for us to know. For the moment."

Morrigan looked at the elf appraisingly. "'Tis a wise man who knows when he knows all he needs to know."

"He's a slave who knows only how to do his master's bidding," Anders said, sneering at Fenris. "Those of us who are free men know that it is necessary to have the full story before we act."

"No one's asking you to act right now, Anders," Wulfric said. "When we need you to act, then will be the time to demand the information necessary to the action. For now, all we're asking you to do is listen. If you can't do that—" He gestured in the general direction of the civilized portion of Thedas. "There's the door."

The two men stared at each other over the heads of the others, all of whom sat silent, but tensed and ready to move if the crackling tension erupted. "You ask a great deal," Anders said at last.

"I ask for trust and friendship. Once you gave those freely."

"Once I gave many things freely. Before I learned to know better."

Wulfric looked away, and Fergus could see a faint flush of red in his cheeks. His brother had done something he regretted there, that much was clear. Fergus would have bet a significant chunk of his treasury, were he a betting man, that Wulfric had slept with the mage in a moment of weakness, implied more than he was willing to give. It wouldn't have been the first time that Wulfric's appetites had gotten him in such trouble. His little brother had taken a long time to learn that his approach to satisfying the demands of the body wasn't taken by everyone, and had littered Highever with broken hearts before Mother had lectured him strongly. 

"What is Flemeth going to do?" Jennie asked in the silence that had fallen. "What do we need to protect Arthur from?"

"I don't know!" Morrigan hated to make the admission, it was clear. "I have studied her grimoire, imagined what I would do in her place ... but the possibilities are many, and I cannot prepare for them all. Not on my own."

"You are no longer on your own," Zev said, standing up. He nodded slightly at Morrigan. "We have come to be sure of that."

"Aye. Elf's got the right of it," Oghren said sturdily.

The four of them together looked like a unit, Fergus thought—it took only a glance to see that they were used to fighting next to and depending on one another. Wulfric and Morrigan relaxed a bit in the face of the stalwart support of their old friends. 

Fergus gave them a moment to let the relief of having help they could count on sink in, then he stood up. "Where do we start? Fortify the camp?"

Morrigan nodded. "Zevran, we need traps that will slow her down and give us warning. Jitzal will show you where to lay them." She gestured with her chin in the direction of the tall Driazi with the shining deep green scales. "And you are to keep your hands to yourself."

"Not to worry. I find myself a bit distracted from such pursuits recently." Zev's gaze was directed low, resting on Varric's animated face.

"For the best." Morrigan cast him an amused look. "I will set magical wards, as well."

"And the rest of us?" Fergus asked. 

"Training. I don't know how long we have, and when she gets here we have to be able to work smoothly together, all of us," Wulfric said. "She was hard enough to kill the first time. We can't afford t make a mistake now."

"What will we do about the Chantry? Their people are certain to follow us," Fenris put in.

Fergus wasn't the only one directing a sharp look Wulfric's way. Most of them assumed Leliana was there for him. But Wulfric's features didn't soften as he said, "Keep your wits about you. We will deal with them when they come." He glanced across at the Driazi. "I think it's important that none of them return to the rest of Thedas to tell the Chantry about this forest and those who populate it. I won't return the Driazi's hospitality that way."

Jennie's hand tightened on Fergus's—he had almost forgotten he was still holding it. She used his grip to pull herself up, and then tore her hand away, walking off into the forest.

"Ser Hawke!" Wulfric called after her, but Jennie didn't turn.

"Her sister's with the Chantry people; one of the Wardens who came hunting us down. Let her go, sweetpea. She'll be back," Isabela said. "Meantime, let's do a weapons check, shall we?" She drew Wulfric away, beckoning to Fenris to follow. 

Morrigan watched the three go, her eyes hard.

"He appears to be reformed," Fergus offered, trying to mollify the tension he saw in her.

"Were I you, I would look to my own affairs instead of poking my nose into things you know nothing about," she said with a chilly sniff, rebuffing his first attempt at building a warm family relationship with her. He had to wonder exactly what it was about her that made fun-loving Wulfric so happy. "You are allowing your opportunity to slip through your fingers," Morrigan pointed out when he didn't move.

Fergus followed her gaze to the path where Jennie had disappeared. "Now who's poking their nose into things they know nothing about?"

"'Tis of no consequence to me. But Wulfric would be happier were he to imagine you will be happy once you leave here."

Maybe Morrigan was right; maybe it was time to pursue his future. "Thank you."

Her golden eyes warmed slightly. "Do not waste time ... brother."


	26. Take My Breath Away

Jennie leaned against a tree, listening to the sounds of the forest. It was so peaceful here, so far from all the squabbling and the games-playing. She could almost forget that her sister was out there somewhere, possibly willing to kill her. 

A bird squawked in the tree above her, rustling about, and an animal of some sort trilled not far away. Jennie held still, wondering if it would come closer if she didn't make a sound. She wanted to see what sorts of creatures wandered this hidden, unknown forest.

Instead, she heard the unmistakable sounds of all-too-human footsteps crunching the debris that littered the ground. 

Jennie sighed in disappointment; she wasn't ready to give up the silence and solitude she had just found.

The footsteps stopped not far from her, and Jennie turned her head to look. Part of her was relieved that it was Fergus, but part of her wasn't ready to contemplate the feelings he stirred in her and wished that it had been anyone else.

"Are you all right?"

"What do you mean?" She wasn't playing coy; there were so many layers to the question, she didn't know which one he wanted the answer to.

"About your sister."

"Oh. No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugged. "Bethany ... she's enjoying her power. She's never been able to use it before; she probably blames my parents for that, and, by proxy, me. Can't blame her."

"She tried to kill you, Jennie. How can you not be angry with her?" Fergus moved closer.

"No, she didn't. Not really." Jennie offered a small smile. "Bethany's a powerful mage. If she'd wanted me dead, bing, zap, I'd be dead. She wanted me out of the fight."

"Hm." He seemed to digest that for a moment. "So what will you do if you have to face her again?"

"Return the favor, if I can. I think most of the group will stand back and let me face her, and I'll do what I can to incapacitate rather than kill. What do you think your brother's going to do about Leliana?"

"I don't know. She's coming after his family. After what he went through in the attack on Highever Castle, I can't imagine him countering such an attack with less than deadly force. Morrigan certainly would have no qualms about doing whatever was necessary."

"Very true." There was a heavy silence between them, as Fergus hovered there clearly not sure what to say. "Is there anything else?" Jennie asked eventually.

"I ... wanted to talk to you about what happened. Before."

She could still feel his lips on hers if she concentrated. Part of her wanted to feel that again; part of her was terrified of letting herself go. "What did you want to say?" Her voice sounded strange to her, breathy and soft.

"I'm sorry for it. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"And?"

"And I'd like to do it again, in a way that wouldn't frighten you." He took a step closer to her, his eyes burning on hers. "I feel—things for you that I have not felt in a long time. I think you reciprocate those feelings, but you keep running from me and I don't know why. Is it me? Have I done something?"

Words were running through Jennie's mind, disconnected from each other. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't him, to explain how she felt ... but when she wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, how could she possibly explain it to him? "Fergus, I just don't know," she said at last, helpless in the face of her own confusion. She pressed back against the tree as if she was trying to become it, be part of the forest with her role and her life already laid out for her.

"What don't you know? How you feel about me?"

"I don't know how I feel in general," she said helplessly. "My last remaining family member hates me; I'm out here far from anywhere without any very clear idea of what I'm doing, other than preparing to defend a family against the woman who saved my life; and then ... there's you. And I don't know what you want or why you would be interested in me. Would you ever have looked at me twice if I wasn't the only available woman in hundreds of miles?" Jennie looked at Fergus sharply. "I'm not the kind of woman someone like you usually admires."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a peasant, the daughter of an apostate. I'm no one."

"You're an Amell of Kirkwall!"

Her back stiffened. "I'm a Hawke, of noplace in particular. A fact my mother was more than willing to forget the minute my father's body was set on fire, despite a lifetime of protestations about their great love and how it was worth every freezing cold day with no wood for the fire, and every night that we went to bed with nothing to eat."

"I see. I mean, I think I understand."

"Then you know why this can't go anywhere," she said. "Back in the real world, I'm not ... not an appropriate choice for someone like you."

"Here, or there, you are appropriate in every way that matters," Fergus said, fiercely. "If that's all you're worried about, you need to stop. Now."

Jennie turned her face away from his blazing eyes. "You say that now, but what about ... down the road? What if you—lose interest and don't want—" The words stuck in her throat and she waved her arms around to indicate the end of the sentence.

"I don't know. Do I need to be certain immediately? Couldn't we ... find out? Together?"

She turned back to look at him, her breath catching in her throat. Did he think she was good for a dalliance? He seemed too smart and too observant to have gotten that impression of her, but she didn't know men well enough to be sure. 

Fergus seemed to see in her face what she couldn't put into words. He groaned, raking a hand through his dark hair. "I just can't make you promises, Jennie. Not straight away. This isn't easy for me, either, you know. You're the first woman since Orana who hasn't felt ... wrong. I think I want to be with you. No, I know I do. But I can't stand here and propose right now; I need more time than that, to be sure."

His honesty warmed Jennie's heart, and the evidence of the pain he still struggled with wrung it. But she was still afraid. "So, how would this work, then?"

Hope brightened Fergus's eyes, and he moved closer. Their bodies were almost touching, and Jennie could feel the heat of him warming her all through. "We take a few steps," he said, his voice gone husky. "Then we see where we are, and look where we're going."

"Big steps?" Jennie's voice was breathless; Fergus's body so close to hers seemed like all the vastness of the surrounding forest, and stirred a wildness inside her that was as exciting as it was frightening.

"Very small steps."

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and sweet, and she let her eyes close as her head slowly fell back against the tree trunk. There was a little voice in the back of her head trying to reassert her usual good sense and cool detachment, and to quiet it, Jennie put her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer against him.

Fergus moaned quietly in the back of his throat. His arms wrapped around her waist, and when Jennie gasped at the contact between their bodies his tongue slid inside her mouth, touching hers.

Her heart pounded with excitement. The kiss seemed to go on and on forever, their bodies melting together.

And then Fergus's hands moved. They settled at her hips, just below her ribcage, but Jennie froze with the movement, and then so did Fergus, in response. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. His eyes were sleepy and warm and concerned, his face reddened.

She struggled with the impulse to push his hands away, wriggling out of his grasp instead. "It's just ..."

"Too much," he finished.

"Very small steps, remember?"

"I'll do my best." They smiled at each other, then, and Jennie felt a fluttering in her heart that might have been fear, and might have been something else altogether.

"Until next time, then." She took his hand to lead him back to the camp.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Zevran was surprised at how quietly and almost invisibly the big Driazi moved through the forest. Of course, this was the tribe's native home, they knew nowhere else. They were designed, by the Maker, he supposed, to blend in here. Or perhaps a power preceding the Maker, he amended. 

Jitzal stopped, holding up a hand. He was staring up into a tree, and after a moment, he reached up, his hand moving almost too quickly to see. When it reappeared from the foliage, he was holding a giant snake, as big around as the Driazi's massive upper arm. The two stared into each other's eyes. Jitzal murmured to the snake, who to all appearances seemed to understand what he was saying. After the brief monologue concluded, the snake's forked tongue flickered in and out in a rapid series of movements. Jitzal nodded, letting the snake drop, and it wound its way sinuously across the dirt, disappearing in the underbrush. Jitzal turned to Zev, grinning, and nodded his head. He moved his hand like a snake and then patted Zev's arm and shook his head.

"Are you trying to say that the snakes will leave us alone?" Zev asked. He crooked his fingers like a snake's fangs, mimed puncturing his own throat, and shook his head, smiling. He looked inquiringly at the Driazi, who nodded again. "Thank you," Zev said, bowing to convey the emotion in a way Jitzal would understand.

They walked on companionably. Jitzal didn't seem perturbed that Zev's head was approximately at his nipples. For a moment, Zev gazed at the warrior's proud, scaled chest appreciatively. Possibilities, he thought.   
But for the moment, he would concentrate on setting the traps Morrigan had recommended. He knelt on the ground, carefully laying out the supplies needed to embed a pressure plate in the ground. Jitzal hunkered down next to him, his eyes glued to Zev's hands. Zev got the impression the big man was filing every movement away in his mind for later consideration, and he wondered at the existence an entire race without mages or, apparently, without those skilled in trap-making. Although the pressure plate was a fairly sophisticated trap, if Zev had to say so himself ... perhaps there was a difference between simple traps set to catch the creatures of the forest and complex traps set to catch more wily prey. 

Jitzal suddenly drew in his breath in a faint, sharp hiss, clamping one hand around Zev's arm as his head reared up. He appeared to be sniffing the air, and it was clear he didn't like what he smelled. Zev held himself still, also, listening carefully. There was a faint sound, as of cloth rubbing together, and Zev turned his head to look at his companion, to warn him.

But too late. A horrible pressure seized Zev, as though he were being squeezed between two stucco walls. Crushing prison; Hawke's sister, he surmised. There was little he could do but hold still and attempt to breathe. 

The Driazi gave a grunting cry of dismay, clearly recognizing something was wrong with Zev, and tried shaking Zev out of his predicament. Such a thing was, of course, impossible, and the shaking broke Zev's concentration, letting precious air be squeezed from his lungs. He wanted to discourage Jitzal from the motion, and warn him, but there was nothing he could do. A noose descended from the tree, wrapping itself around the Driazi's neck. He cried out as it tightened around his throat, his eyes bugging out and a narrow tongue darting from his mouth, twitching agitatedly. His big hands clutched at the noose. 

With a strangled bellow, Jitzal's muscular thighs tensed and he pulled hard against the rope. A dark-clad figure tumbled from the tree at their feet, and Jitzal stomped on it, as hard as he could, and with no hesitation. There was a cracking sound as the broad, strong foot crushed the person's ribs and everything that lay beneath them. Zev couldn't turn his head to look, but he assumed this was one of Leliana's Chantry minions. She would not have put herself in such a position. He was impressed by Jitzal's lack of hesitation; the Driazi crushed his enemy with less thought than the highest-trained Crow. 

The prison was easing slightly, the spell wearing off. Zev knew from experience that he would be little help to his companion for several minutes after the spell ended—his muscles would be weak, the blood rushing painfully back into his extremities.

As he stood there, helpless, another rope flew from the surrounding greenery, wrapping itself around Jitzal's waist, following quickly by one more that wrapped around the Driazi's upper arms. Muscles bulging, the big man struggled against the ropes, powerful thighs straining as he pulled away from his captors. The ropes creaked, but they held. Zev could feel his breathing growing easier as the spell continued to fade, and he tried to wiggle his way toward the other man, wanting to help Jitzal as much as he could.

But Jitzal didn't appear to need any assistance. A cunning look crossed his face as he moved backward, the tension on the ropes that held him slackening as he reduced the distance between himself and his unseen captors. With room to maneuver, the Driazi gave a great cry and charged to the side. The change in momentum yanked another Chantry minion out of hiding, although this one quickly let go of the rope and scrambled back into the brush; clearly he had seen what had happened to his compatriot.

Zev fell to the ground, his muscles burning with the return of circulation to his arms and legs. He pulled himself slowly, painfully toward the still-struggling Driazi. But Jitzal looked up at him, his eyes wide. He was shouting something in his own tongue. Zev didn't recognize the word, but the expression told him all he needed to know—the Driazi was telling him to run.

It would have been second nature to do so, once, when his honor, such as it was, weighed less on him than his life; when he trusted no one and no one could trust him. At a later point, it would have been unthinkable to run, when the survival of himself and his companions meant they all had to work together. Today, he thought he understood what Jitzal was trying to tell him—that if Zev could get away, Jitzal could keep the attackers busy enough to cover him, and Zev could find either his people or Jitzal's tribesmen and get help. 

He got to his feet and limped off into the jungle, willing the feeling back into his feet so he could run faster. Bolts of white light shot above his head, raining a shower of leaves down upon him, but none of them connected, and soon he was in the underbrush, blending in expertly.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
"What do you mean you let Zevran get away?" Leliana screeched, so loudly Bethany was certain the other woman could be heard in far-away Orlais. "I told you to take anyone you found!"

"We tried, Sister," one of the faceless Chantryites whined. "But this one was too much for us."

"I do not even know what this is," Leliana said, standing over the bound and gagged man at her feet. "He appears to be less a man than a ... lizard."

Privately, Bethany thought that was the Chantry's limited worldview talking. No doubt this man was of a tribe native to this forgotten forest. Not that she felt any need to voice that surmise; Leliana could talk to herself all she liked. Bethany was having trouble keeping her eyes from the muscular form lying on the ground. The green scales shone and she wanted to reach out and touch them, to run her hands over them and see if they were as smooth as they looked.

"You!" Leliana said to their captive. "What's your name?"

He said something, but it was clear to all of them that it wasn't his name. Even lying there trussed up, Bethany could see his dignity. He made Leliana look like a petulant child.

"This is a waste of time," said Thrand, turning away. "He can't speak our language, so there's no point in questioning him. We shouldn't have wasted time capturing him in the first place. Now we have alerted the others that we are closing in on them, gained nothing, and saddled ourselves with a captive we can't speak to. Let us rid ourselves of him; he's already wounded, he wouldn't last long without healing anyway."

Bethany was used to Thrand's cut-and-dried view of the world, and the suggestion to kill the strange man in front of them didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was the reluctance she felt to do it. Her eyes met the dark, pain-filled eyes of the scaled man. His held no hint of pleading, no submission at all. He seemed willing to die in front of them, and Bethany respected that inner certainty.

"He might be able to lead us to the others, if properly motivated," she said.

"I do not deal in blood magic," Leliana said dismissively.

"I didn't mean blood magic," Bethany snapped. "I meant if we heal him he might be grateful." Thrand snorted, and quickly she changed tactics. "Or, if we heal him and let him go, and then follow him, he might lead us to the others. Think about it," she said when both the others turned to look at her. "He likely doesn't know how humans move—we could track him without him knowing. It would be child's play for two such skilled trackers as you are."

Leliana narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, looking down at the bound captive with consideration. Thrand's eyes were on Bethany, and she schooled her features into the blandest of all the innocent faces she'd used growing up. 

"Warden Hawke makes a good point," Thrand said at last.

"I agree." Leliana nodded. She turned to Bethany. "Heal him, and then we shall see how best to use him."

They both left the area, leaving Bethany alone with the captive.


	27. Words

Zevran paced back and forth, occasionally pausing to stare in the direction Morrigan had flown. He wished he could have gone with her and explained to the Driazi how it was that he had lost their tribesman and escaped to tell the tale. The pride in that accomplishment, in the saving of self to live and be used as a weapon another day, that he had been taught to feel warred with his shame at having left a companion behind. He had learned to feel that loyalty, and that shame, at the side of Wulfric Cousland, and it felt like a betrayal that he had abandoned that education, even if it had been ultimately in Wulfric's service ... and at Jitzal's own behest. 

He gave the Driazi good odds of surviving, possibly even charming Leliana with his silent, alien self-assurance, but he wanted to be there, as well, to be the lurking snake in the trees watching what they did.

Morrigan had told him, in no uncertain terms, to stay where he was, and he respected her greater knowledge of this vast forest, even as he chafed at the inactivity. What he needed was a distraction ...  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric looked up at the sky, squinting thoughtfully, then bent over the vellum spread out on a thin slab of wood in front of him and carefully inscribed a few words in his bold block print. He bit his lip, considering the next few. His pencil hovered over the page.

"Are you struggling with your muse, my friend? I can assist."

He twisted his neck, looking back over his shoulder, and smiled at the assassin. "I bet you have more than a few stories under your belt, Flash, but I prefer original material."

"You wound me! As if my adventures are nothing more than tales told to aid in my conquests."

"Aren't they?"

"Well, yes, but having you point it out shatters the illusion entirely."

Varric shook his head, looking back at the paper as Flash eased himself into a sitting position next to him. 

"Is it our adventures here on the edge of the world that inspire you?"

There were notes in the tone of that voice that teased at the writer in Varric, notes he wanted to study and catalog and inscribe on the page so he couldn't forget them. Teasing warmth, a hint of wistfulness, a throaty trill of exhilaration. Voices were as fascinating to Varric as flavors were to an epicure—he loved to listen to their layers, to imagine what the voice was trying to convey that the words didn't. He didn't like his own voice. Too scratchy, too one-note, too redolent of years spent steeping in woodsmoke. Flash, on the other hand ... his voice was mercurial. Soft and seductive one moment, merry and amused the next, then dark and dangerous. 

"You appear miles away," Flash said, breaking into Varric's thoughts. "Copper for your thoughts?"

Varric cleared his throat. "Not worth that much, I'm afraid."

"I have a hard time believing that. As a matter of fact, my dwarven friend, I would pay dearly to be able to hear your thoughts." Flash's voice had taken on a rare serious timbre, low and hurried. "You hide behind your stories to avoid becoming a principal player in someone else's. What is it that you desire?"

"Right now? A hot drink, a long bath, and my own bed." The deflection was automatic, second nature by now. 

Varric had expected a laugh, but the assassin's face closed in on itself, disappointment revealed briefly and then closed off. He stood up, brushing dirt off the skirt of his leather armor. "Morrigan has gone to inform the other Driazi that Jitzal was taken prisoner. No doubt they will want our help." He walked off without a backward glance, leaving Varric staring after him. Had Flash come to him for some kind of comfort? Varric had considered that having a companion captured out from under his nose was par for the course for Flash's day, and that the assassin would wait here until summoned to go after him, his emotions untouched. Apparently he'd been wrong ... and apparently what had begun as a pursuit had entangled the Antivan firmly in his own web. As a storyteller, Varric found it a fascinating turn of events. As a man—

He swallowed, hard, remembering the feel of the other man's lips and tongue on his. As a man, it scared him shitless.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fenris sat on the bank of a small stream, allowing the long branch he was using as a fishing pole to dangle limply in the water. In truth, he wasn't particularly interested in catching anything—he hated fish—but it was a good excuse to be by himself away from camp and still look as though he was accomplishing something useful. He was used to spending a great deal of time alone in his mansion. Being on this journey, constantly surrounded by the eyes and breath and expectations of others, was not an experience he was particularly enjoying.

Of course, in Kirkwall he had the expectation that Danarius would arrive to capture him at any moment. Planning for that eventuality took up large amounts of time. However, even Danarius couldn't find him here. It was the safest place in Thedas. Had he been able to conceive of such a place, he would have imagined it would be a relief not to have to constantly monitor his surroundings for the presence of slave-hunters and for ways to escape them. But the reality was that the freedom from fear left him with too little to think about ... and allowed him to think too much of other things that he should not have been contemplating.

Whether Isabela's skin was as silky as it appeared, for example. What variety of exotic spices she might taste like were he to be fool enough to kiss her. The sounds she might make in his ear were he to—

"Venhedis!" he growled, impatient with himself. He shifted, his tight leggings grown uncomfortable after the course his thoughts had taken. Even a woman of Isabela's widely varied experience would be disgusted by the things that aroused him, of that he was certain. Memories he had attempted to bury came to him—of the slender whips Danarius had used, of Hadriana biting his nipples until they were darkened with bruises—and he hated himself for being aroused by them. Almost as much as he hated Danarius and Hadriana for making him into such a monster. He was too afraid that he might hurt someone to allow himself to become ... physical. Could he change? Could he overcome his aversion to being touched gently, his—need for pain? He just didn't know.

A crunching sound from behind him brought his head up, his ears twitching. More crunches followed. Isabela was not being subtle in her approach—from the sound of it, she was seeking out each twig in her path, to avoid sneaking up on him. She was one of the few who could, he had to admit. She could move with surprising silence when she chose to do so.

He turned around, watching her as she picked her way across the ground toward him. She was, indeed, treading on every stick, smashing her boot down on each one with what appeared to be a very satisfying crack. Fenris waited for her to reach him, watching without speaking. He had grown to accept that not talking to her would not deter her, but it couldn't hurt.

"Fishing? You don't even like fish." She didn't wait for his response, sinking down next to him.

Fenris moved away from her, making it ostentatious. Isabela smirked at him.

"Subtle." She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. "You didn't come all the way out here and pretend to be fishing just to get away from little old me, did you?"

He didn't speak; she didn't move.

"Apparently so. You know, pursuing you doesn't scare me." She leaned closer, whispering, "It excites me." She chuckled, warm and throaty and suggestive. "The more you run, the better it will be when I finally catch you. And I will catch you, Fenris."

Her use of his name caused him to shiver. She saw it, and licked her lips.

Goaded to speech, he said, "I have told you that this is a waste of time. Cease this nonsense—leave me be!"

Isabela laid her head on her knees, her face turned toward him. She looked remarkably young in the pose, and ... lonely, Fenris thought. Then he scoffed at himself. He was romanticizing in a more ridiculous manner than Varric. "I've been around, you know," Isabela said, breaking into his internal dialogue. "I've seen perversions you never dreamed of. Participated in a few ... initiated more than one. You like it rough? I can do rough."

Her lips had curled back to reveal her sharp white teeth. A blinding image of what she could do with those teeth, where she could bite, caused Fenris's throat to go dry as a surge of lust swept over him. "Not ... like they did. They were masters at it. They knew how ..." He looked away. He simply could not admit to her how he had begged for the lash, to feel its sharp bite on his skin, how it had come to be that there was no pleasure without the pain. "I hated them, make no mistake about that, and I despise myself for wanting what they taught me to ... enjoy. But I cannot change it now."

Isabela stood up, uncurling her body in a single, fluid motion. Fenris ducked his head, ashamed that he had revealed so much. Then he felt her hand on his head, the strong fingers closing around his skull and jerking his head back so that he was forced to look up at her. "You aren't the only one who was ever taught to equate pain with pleasure. My husband could make me orgasm just by pinching my thigh by the time Zev killed him for me. If dealing that out is what you need ..." Her fingers closed on his hair and tugged sharply, bringing tears to his eyes. "I can do that. But, Fenris, I no longer need pain to feel pleasure. I broke his hold over me—and you can break theirs over you." She let go then, smoothing the hair with a brief touch, too brief to call up the bile that rose in him when gentleness was directed his way. "Some day I intend to meet this Danarius ... and you and I will make him beg before we're done with him."

Her hand left his head, and although he listened hard for the sound of her footfalls as she left, he couldn't hear them.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bethany knelt next to the captive. She reached out a hand, surprised by the strength of her own desire to feel the texture of the shining scales that covered him. But he jerked away from her, making incomprehensible sounds in his own language.

"No, no," she said, striving to make her voice soothing. She smiled at him.

His eyes narrowed, confusion and wariness taking the place of anger and defiance in his expression.

"Healing," Bethany said. "See?" She held up her hand, allowing the energy to dance around her fingers, making them glow. She wondered what type of magic his people had.

He frowned, the scaled brows drawing down over his broad, elongated nose. His next word was a question, the end of it unmistakably lilted upward.

"Yes, healing." She nodded her head. "May I?" Her hand hovered over one of his more benign wounds, a long scratch on his forearm. She reached out with her finger, keeping her eyes on his, watching for any sign of movement. But he held still, waiting, and Bethany let her outstretched finger touch his arm, drawing it slowly over the scratch. The skin was warm, and absolutely smooth, almost frictionless. She caught herself wondering what it would feel like if she ran her tongue across it, and knew she was blushing madly. What was wrong with her?

The torn skin drew itself together, knitting completely until the scratch was gone. She sat back on her heels, looking at him again, raising her eyebrows in question. Would he let her continue?

He twisted in his bonds, trying to look as closely at the healed scratch as he could. Then he grunted, as if satisfied, and lay back, shifting one leg to expose a large gash just above his knee.

Bethany laid both hands there, letting the healing flow through her fingers and into his body. With difficulty, she kept her hands still when they wanted to stroke the smooth, almost glossy, skin. 

"What's your name?" she asked in a whisper, glancing hastily behind her. Leliana and Thrand were out of sight, but were they out of hearing? It was so hard to tell. She pointed at herself. "Beth-a-ny."

He cocked his head, looking at her quizzically, and she said it again, slowly.

"Ess-a-neee," he repeated.

Close enough. She nodded, smiling, and took his hand in hers. Holding it near herself, she said "Bethany," once more. Then she moved both their hands near him, raising her eyes and gesturing with her head to make it clear that she wanted him to reciprocate.

He said something, but she couldn't quite understand it, so she pushed their hands a little closer to him. He said it again.

"Jit-sall?" she tried, and he nodded. "Hello, Jitsall." And she smiled at him again. This time, he smiled back.


	28. Walk the Dinosaur

Morrigan came to a stop in the camp, changing from hawk to human as she touched down. It was a remarkably swift transition; Jennie wondered how many hours of work it had taken to learn to transform that seamlessly. What would it be like to take wing and soar high above the treetops? She caught Fergus's eye, and then looked hastily away, blushing. A romantic part of her that persisted despite her attempts to quash it thought being with Fergus might be like that—a feeling of flying safely across the sky, with him to support her. 

"Don't be foolish," she whispered to herself.

"What's that?" Isabela, standing closest to Jennie, leaned over to ask.

"Nothing. Talking to myself."

"Inner badass need a pep talk?"

"Something like that."

Morrigan cleared her throat, and the assembled group fell silent. "The Driazi are on the move; I almost pity Leliana should they find her. However, they are simple people, who live largely without trickery. Her stratagems may take them by surprise, and that is where we come in." There was an undoubted smirk on her face as she surveyed the faces in front of her. "We are all more than used to treachery and the devious methods of certain humans ... It is our task to protect the people of this forest from anything that might come to harm them. They would not be in danger were it not for—me." 

"For us," Wulfric corrected, taking her hand.

"It is not the time to quibble, my love, but no, this is my doing." She glanced sharply at Jennie and Fergus. "And theirs."

Jennie opened her mouth to argue—after all, how could they have known that Bethany and Leliana would follow them into the forest? But of course, they should have known. Zevran and Varric had suspected, that much she knew, and she and Fergus had been painfully naive. At least he had the excuse of barely knowing Leliana ... Jennie should have seen her sister coming miles away. "What do you want us to do?" she asked instead, and Morrigan looked at her approvingly.

"I will ask Fergus and Wulfric to remain here in order to guard Arthur. We cannot take the chance that this may be a distraction while others of their party circle around to capture him. Perhaps Zevran would be so good as to remain as well?"

Zev's mouth tightened a little, his mouth opening and closing without words, and Varric spoke up for him. "I think what Flash is trying not to say is that he would like to be there to make sure Jitzal's found safe and in one piece." The Antivan looked gratefully at the dwarf, but with surprise, and Varric grinned. "I've told you, I'm very good at this," he said to Zev, and then, to Morrigan, "I'll be happy to stay here and help keep an eye out. Bianca's got dead aim."

"Very well. And thank you."

Zev took Varric's hand in his, bending over it and kissing it. It was a courtly gesture, not a sexual one, for once, and demonstrated the deep appreciation Zev didn't feel comfortable putting into words.

As such, Varric didn't snatch his hand back the way he might otherwise have done, wiping it off ostentatiously and making a joke. Instead he let Zev finish, smiled at the elf, and said, "You're welcome."

"And the rest of us?" Jennie asked.

Morrigan brushed a stray feather off her shoulder. "I shall accompany our native friends—magical assistance will not be amiss, since the opposing party has mages and they do not. Isabela and Zevran, circle in each direction. The Chantry and the Wardens are ahead of us, that much I could tell by my flight. Our old friend," she glanced at Wulfric, "did not appear to notice me, as she was in the midst of a heated argument with your sister, Hawke."

"Not surprising. Bethany could make anyone angry."

"Indeed. As could Leliana." Morrigan sniffed. She cleared her throat, pulling herself back to the present moment. "Hawke, Fenris, Oghren, Anders, there is a clearing to which the Driazi intend to lead our foes. I will guide you there. I assume the four of you can handle a few Chantry zealots and a couple of Grey Wardens?"

Jennie grinned. "I think so."

"Be cautious, Hawke," Fenris said. "We do not know what they may have planned for us."

"Bronto droppings!" Oghren shouted. "They've got no idea what they're in for. We'll have 'em down an' beggin' 'fore they know it."

"There's the old Oghren enthusiasm I've missed so much," Anders said, sighing. "Usually followed by the old Oghren belching, and then by the old Oghren falling down drunk."

"Ya skipped the fightin', boy. Let's get to it!"

Oghren's enthusiasm was infectious; everyone was anxious to get started. Zevran met Varric's eyes and winked at him suggestively. He was rewarded by a raising of one fuzzy blond eyebrow. Then the assassin disappeared into the foliage. 

Isabela blew Fenris a kiss, which provoked a glare from the elf. And also a faint blush, Jennie noted with some interest.

"If you are prepared?" Morrigan was looking at Jennie.

"Just ... one moment." She turned to Fergus, reaching out for him, and his large, warm hand closed around hers, pulling her close for a brief hug and an even briefer kiss, a mere brushing of lips. They didn't say anything, but there was a promise of more to come in his embrace that had Jennie smiling as she let him go.

Oghren looked from one to the other. "I miss somethin'? You two ridin' the white bronto?"

"Oghren." Fergus frowned, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"Lucky stiff." Oghren guffawed. "Lucky 'stiff', get it?"

"Please." Morrigan looked pained. "I heard more than enough during the Blight. Remove him from my presence at once."

"Come on, Oghren," Jennie said. "Let's move out."

"Oh, yeah, bet that's what the Warden's big bro said. Tell me, is he really the bigger brother?" Oghren nudged her shoulder as they gathered their weapons. Morrigan, with an exclamation of disgust, stretched her body and became a wolf, which loped ahead at a clip Jennie had to jog to keep up with. 

Morrigan led them to the clearing, arranging them within thick stands of brush. Briefly, she shimmered back into her human form, whispering urgently, "By all means, hold your attack until you are certain of what you are aiming at. There are creatures in this forest who would not take kindly to being attacked."

"Isn't Leliana one of them?" Anders muttered, quieting when Morrigan shot him an irritated glare.

Jennie climbed up into a tree and watched Anders do the same across the clearing. The mage climbed with surprising agility for such a tall man. Oghren made himself comfortable in the underbrush and Fenris, after a grimace, did the same. For someone who lived in squalor in a decaying mansion, the elf was surprisingly finicky.

They had to wait for a long time, eyes and ears focused on their surroundings, poised for the first sign of battle moving in their direction. Jennie kept her eyes on Fenris’s location, relying on the elf’s superior hearing … but when sound came, none of them could have missed it. A heavy thump … thump … thump as a large thing moved slowly through the forest. 

As it came close, moving slowly, its giant head swinging from side to side, Jennie recognized it as the creature she had seen when the Driazi were leading them through the forest. This time it wasn’t in pursuit of anything. Jennie hoped her team had the good sense to remain silent and motionless and not give it anything to pursue. She dreaded what might happen if Oghren let loose one of his trademark belches.

The creature stopped near them, holding still. Was it sniffing the air? Jennie hoped not … although she did derive some comfort from the idea that if the creature could smell, it would go after Oghren first. She looked across the clearing toward Anders, wishing she could risk asking him what defenses his magic had against a creature whose head was as high as the trees. It dwarfed even the dragons she had seen. Yellowed teeth showed where its jaw hung open, teeth that were almost as long as Jennie’s bow. 

She held her breath as it slowly turned its head away from them, toward the area where she expected the fighting might be. Could it hear something she couldn’t, or sense something? Maybe it could smell blood, she thought, her stomach churning at the idea. Then its whole body turned ponderously, small arms flapping as it began to trot through the woods. Its tail caught the tree Jennie was sitting in, and for a moment the tree shook. She clung to the branches, hoping the tree wouldn’t fall and call the creature back with the sound of its crash.

“Whose side do you think that thing is on?” Anders called shakily, once the thump thump thump had receded into the distance.

“The winner’s,” Fenris answered.

It was an unarguable answer, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence, waiting.


	29. The Chantry's Hubris

“They’re coming,” Thrand said quietly, crouching down next to Leliana. “The lizard man’s people are completely lacking in subtlety.”

Bethany held her tongue, although the term “lizard man” seemed, while accurately descriptive, also a bit patronizing. Hadn’t Thrand’s people been fighting for equality for centuries? Shouldn’t he admire forest dwellers who lived in peace on their own? Maybe he was jealous, she thought.

“The better for us,” Leliana said. She twisted around to look at Bethany. “Did he give you any information we can use?”

“He doesn’t speak our language. Or any language.” That was a stretch of the truth. There was meaning in the sibilant sounds the man had made, if Bethany could only unlock it. Hesitantly, she had tried to form those sounds with her own mouth, but it had been very difficult. Once she’d managed to get him to grin at a mispronounced word, his sharp teeth shining.

“Surely they must communicate with each other somehow,” Thrand snapped.

“I think it’s possible they speak with one another telepathically,” Bethany said. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the hastily smothered concern on the other two’s faces. “How close are they?” she asked, prodding the anxiety just a touch.

“Not far now.” Leliana nodded to one of her Chantry minions. “Warden Bethany, get back. I do not want you compromised by this.” The Templar stepped forward, taking a deep breath to center himself, and then performed a Holy Smite on the area. “That should take care of any magic users amongst them.”

If she stretched out her arm, Bethany could touch the edges of the smited area, feeling just a hint of the cold, shivery emptiness that a smite caused. She looked at Leliana with dislike. Not that the Grey Wardens didn’t take advantage of Templar skills when they had the chance, but they wouldn’t have compromised the power of their own mages that way, not with a lasting cleanse of an entire area. It was typical of the Chantry’s high-handedness and their contempt for mages. Which only thinly veiled their fear of mages, Bethany thought. 

And it hadn’t accomplished anything; that much was obvious as a line of men emerged from the trees. All of them carried weapons; long sticks, to the casual observer, but a more combat-aware eye could see that the ends of the spears were wickedly sharp. Some of the men carried two of the deadly things, and Bethany could see something gleaming wet on the end of some of the spears. She considered pointing out to her companions that the tribesmen appeared to know something about poisons, but decided that Leliana and Thrand, both of whom considered themselves experts in … everything, ought to be able to see that for themselves.

She glanced at Jit-sall, whose eyes were fixed on her. No doubt he was wondering what she and her companions intended to do with him. Or trying to decide what to do with their corpses when his tribesmen killed them, she amended with some amusement. Bethany wasn’t entirely clear on her role in the battle—no doubt Leliana would give her orders when she felt it necessary and Thrand, who was a more experienced Warden if technically Bethany’s junior, would likely expect Bethany to continue cooperating with the Chantry’s forces until such time as they claimed Cousland as the prize of the Grey Wardens. For the moment, Bethany had no intention of lifting a finger. None of Jit-sall’s kinsmen had done anything to her, and he was only their prisoner by happenstance. As far as she was concerned, this fight was no business of hers. She would watch over Jit-sall, and keep her own counsel. 

Leliana signaled to two of her minions, and they attacked from the sides. The tribesmen responded by forming a large circle, protecting each other with their large bodies. The first few blows failed, the swords deflected by the tribesmen’s heavily scaled arms, which acted as excellent armor. Thrand was on his feet now, his bow nocked. He let an arrow loose, and it caught one of the men in the unprotected neck. The man reeled backward with a high-pitched scream that hurt Bethany’s ears, and was clearly very painful to Thrand’s more sensitive hearing, because the elf dropped his bow and fell to his knees, his hands over his ears. Jit-sall, at her feet, heard the scream and began to struggle in his bonds.

“Do something to quiet him,” Leliana snapped. She took careful aim at the screaming tribesman with a throwing knife, and the scream was abruptly cut off as the knife embedded itself in his windpipe.

The tribesmen were holding their own so far, but they were giving ground, being pressed backward into the forest by the Chantry’s fighters. There were more tribesmen than Chantry-men, but the tribesmen were clearly less used to this type of combat. Even at that, they seemed to be giving way too easily. Bethany looked from the scene of battle to the prisoner. His wide eyes pleaded with her. Taking a deep breath, she looked around her. Leliana and Thrand were moving cautiously after the men on the front lines, paying no attention to Bethany or her charge. She drew her small knife and cut through the thongs holding him. 

He stood up and she got her first full sense of how large he was. He towered over her, his muscles smoothly covered by his cool, scaly skin. Their eyes met, and Jit-sall put his hands on her shoulders, pressing them in wordless thanks.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered breathlessly.

He looked up and toward the battle, then looked back at her again, a question in his eyes.

Was he asking her to go with him? Could she? Bethany glanced at Thrand. The Wardens had given her power, and free rein to use her Maker-given abilities. Surely she owed them her allegiance. But they had constrained her to do their bidding, sent her out here chasing after her own sister. She had done as they asked, she had followed Jennie to the ends of Thedas. Wasn’t that enough? Not that she felt any great affection for her sister, but she didn’t want to see her killed, either—and she’d had enough of the coldness of Chantry and Wardens both.

Jit-sall reached out and touched her on the shoulder, the heat of his hand practically burning through the Warden armor and the padding beneath it. Bethany took a deep gulp of the thick, hot air … and nodded.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Can you hear anything?” Fergus asked his brother, who had been standing as still as a stone, staring in the direction the fighters had gone, for at least ten minutes.

Wulfric shook his head.

“They’re falling back,” Arthur said suddenly. He was huddled on a blanket, his knees drawn up and his face hidden. “They’re moving toward where your friends are waiting.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can see them, because my mother can see them.”

“You’re looking through her eyes?” Varric asked, intrigued. 

“Yes. I could look through yours, if you let me.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I like only having one person in my head.”

Fergus wondered what it felt like, to see the world through someone else’s eyes. Did it give you a fresh perspective? Arthur’s face was tense, and he whispered a name that was unfamiliar to Fergus.

“Has he fallen?” Wulfric asked. The boy nodded, manfully trying to hold back his tears. “Can any of them see your mother?”

Arthur sniffled hard, screwing his face up as he tried to concentrate. At last he shook his head. “The woman with the fire hair is looking for her, but so far Mother is hidden from her sight.”

“Leliana,” Wulfric said, his shoulders slumping.

“Why does she hate you so much?” Fergus asked. “Is it merely because you chose Morrigan?”

Wulfric spread his hands apart in a helpless gesture. “Yes, and no. I didn’t choose Leliana, and that was hurt enough, but then I also turned my back on the Chantry and the Wardens and all of Thedas, and apparently that was an even greater crime as far as all of them were concerned. All I wanted was to protect my family.”

Fergus put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I would have done the same.”

“I know you would have. It’s what we were taught, after all. Family first.”

“I won’t leave your side until we’re sure they’re safe. I promise. No matter what.”

“Thank you, brother.” The two of them embraced while the little boy looked toward the battle with eyes that saw too much and Varric watched the child with mingled curiosity and pity.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morrigan’s wings fluttered as she settled lightly in the top of a tree. Below her, the Driazi were falling back, as planned, giving the Chantry’s fools the false impression that they were prevailing. And that woman was falling for it. There was shining triumph on those fat lips as Leliana followed her men across the clearing. The Dalish Warden was with her, but Morrigan spared little concern for him. Her battle was with the bard, and revenge would be tremendously sweet. 

She stayed where she was, motionless and undetected by the two master trackers.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“I hear something,” Fenris said softly from his position on the ground. “There ahead of us.”

“Is it that—thing?” Anders asked. It was clear he was striving for a curious tone, but his voice quavered.

Fenris cast him a disdainful look, but his ears twitched as he listened for the answer. “No,” he said at last. “It is out there, but off to the … left, yes. The Driazi are coming this way, from the sound of it, no doubt followed by the Chantry and the Wardens.”

“Bring them on!” Anders said gleefully. He settled himself carefully in the notch of two large branches, securing his position, and began massaging his hands, readying them for a flurry of spell-casting. 

Oghren was surprisingly quiet on the ground, not even a snore to indicate that he was sleeping through the long waiting time. If she hadn’t been able to see his bright red hair, Jennie might have thought he’d left. She shifted slightly in the tree to see him better. He was down on one knee, bent over with his fist pressed into the ground. No, she realized, looking closer. It was pressed against a rock. Gaining strength from the Stone? She wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to be that devout.

“Psst.” Fenris’s urgent whisper broke into her thoughts, and she looked in the direction he had previously indicated. She could see the trees moving as the Driazi passed among them. Jennie spared a quick glance at the sky, wondering if Morrigan would be coming in to support them, but saw no sign of the mage. She supposed it didn’t matter as long as Morrigan kept out of range of Jennie’s arrows and Anders’s spells.

Jennie readied her bow, holding an arrow loosely in her other hand, ready to nock as soon as she saw an enemy. The fine tension that spelled battle was taut across her shoulders, and a grin spread irrepressibly across her face. There really was nothing quite like a good fight.


	30. The Winner Takes It All

Jennie could see the gleam of the Driazi’s scales as they backed through the trees toward the clearing where she waited. They moved all-but-silently; in comparison with them the Chantry’s well-trained soldiers sounded like rank amateurs, crackling their way through the forest. As the Driazi reached the clearing they scattered, diving into the underbrush on either side. The Chantry fighters followed, looking bewildered when they broke into the clearing and there was no one to fight. Jennie drew her bow, taking careful aim, and sent the arrow through the eyehole of the front Chantryite’s helmet.

That was the signal for her team to go into action. Fenris’s deep voice and Oghren’s berserker howl echoed through the woods as they burst from cover. The startled Chantry fighters lost precious moments setting for the unexpected attack, which left an opening for Anders to freeze one with a well-targeted blast of ice, and Jennie to send an arrow into the kneecap of another. She gave a hurried glance in Anders’s direction, hoping he wouldn’t get carried away and use a fireball. He’d done that on Sundermount once, and it had taken all his efforts and Merrill’s and Marethari’s to get the resulting fire under control. He was totally focused on the scene below them, shooting blasts of energy whenever he thought he could hit someone without damaging Oghren. He was taking less care to avoid Fenris, and one of the energy blasts caught the elf square in the small of the back, causing him to fall to his knees and cry out in pain. A Chantry fighter raised a hand axe above Fenris’s unprotected head; Jennie aimed an arrow and sent it through the man’s arm. He dropped the axe, which narrowly missed Fenris’s foot, and danced back, howling, as he tried to break the arrow in order to remove it from his arm. Jennie wished him luck; her arrows were specially made by a contact of Bodahn’s with reinforced shafts that made them extremely hard to remove. 

Fenris had recovered by now and was up on his feet. His sword sliced into the neck of the wounded Chantry fighter, taking care of any need to remove the arrow. Fenris glared in Anders’s general direction before rejoining the fray. Three of the Chantry’s men were down now, the last two standing back to back in the middle of the clearing as Oghren and Fenris faced off against them. Oghren screamed, spraying spit all over his Chantryite, before rushing the man. Unable to stand in the face of Oghren’s rush, the man broke and ran, only to be caught by a paralysis spell from Anders and a final, well-aimed arrow from Jennie. Meanwhile, Fenris was stalking his man, who was warbling a nervous canticle in a high, thin voice. Jennie grinned. She was pretty sure the Maker couldn’t hear you from here, if he could hear at all. At last the Chantryite tripped over a rock, falling flat on his back. It was ironic, Jennie thought, that Fenris should be dealing the man his final blow, since Fenris agreed with so many of the Chantry’s precepts. Equally ironic that lyrium should be the way a faithful son of the Chantry should go. Perhaps he’d go out on a nice lyrium high. 

On the ground, Fenris withdrew his dripping hand from the man’s chest cavity. The giant beast they’d seen earlier had not reappeared, which surprised Jennie. She had expected it would show up when the blood and screaming started.

“Fenris!”

The elf turned, looking up at her with the wildness of battle in his green eyes.

“Do you hear that thing out there anywhere?”

He raised an eyebrow, turning to face the forest, his ears twitching. “Yes. It is coming closer.”

She envied his self-possession; she was scared senseless.

Two of the Driazi emerged from the woods. They looked in the same direction Fenris was, nodding, with expressions of satisfaction on their broad, flat faces. Jennie could hear the pounding feet of the great beast now, moving ever nearer, until its big head poked through the trees, saliva dripping from its fangs.

One of the Driazi whistled sharply, then spoke a single short word. The monster growled in reply, bending down, and it lifted three of the Chantry’s dead men in its giant mouth before turning and making its way into the forest and out of sight.

Jennie and the others watched in consternation. At last, Anders said, “Well, that certainly beats wearing out one’s mana burning the bodies all the time. Smells better, too. You think we could get one of those for Kirkwall?”

“Where would it sleep?” Fenris asked.

“Seriously, that’s your question?” Jennie called down. Both men looked at her with identical expressions of surprise. She shrugged, laughing. “Of course. Always practical.”

The Driazi were making motions to indicate that the clearing was safe now, and Jennie shimmied her way down the tree.

“Was that everythin’?” Oghren asked as she reached the ground. “Thought there’d be more fightin’ than that.” He looked around, frowning. “An’ where’s Chantry-tits, anyway?”

Jennie shrugged. “I think Morrigan had other plans for her.” She looked in the direction the Chantryites had come from with some concern. “I haven’t seen Bethany, either.”  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bethany was speeding through the forest, her small white hand enclosed gently but firmly in Jit-sall’s large warm green-scaled one. He was anxious about his people, that much was quite clear, and she felt guilty that she was slowing him down. Perhaps if she cast a haste spell on herself? She raised her free hand, whispering the incantation softly, and then cursed as an arrow embedded itself in her arm, the pain cutting off her spell.

A lithe figure came into view, dangling from a tree in front of them. To Bethany’s pain-fogged eyes, it appeared that a leather-clad elf was lowering himself on a thick green rope. She blinked as the elf dropped to the ground and the rope curled itself back into the tree, recognizing it as a snake as big as her arm. The elf looked up at the tree, whispering a few words in what she recognized as Jit-sall’s language, and even through her pain she felt a flash of envy.

“My friend, you are in one piece. Such a relief,” the elf said. Bethany knew him now; he was one of Jennie’s companions. He turned to her, bowing with a courtly flourish. “In deference to our dear Champion, the arrow was not treated with poison first. But I have no compunction about killing you should you make another move against my friend here.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” she said tartly. “Who do you think set him free?”

The elf’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You expect me to believe you have turned traitor?”

“Traitor to what? The Chantry?” She barked a short laugh. “I had no intention of playing second fiddle to their people, even if my own chose to join forces with them. I bear no love for the Chantry.”

“Little for your sister, either,” he pointed out.

“True enough. But I do not wish Jennie dead.”

Jit-sall had been watching this back and forth gravely, and now he put a hand on the elf’s shoulder and let loose a flood of that strangely beautiful sibilant tongue. The elf appeared to be listening, although the way his eyes intently bored into those of the taller man suggested to Jennie that it was Jit-sall’s face he was responding to more than his words.

“Our mutual friend indicates that you did, indeed, help him escape, as well as tending his wounds. On his behalf, I thank you, and I ask you, what are your intentions?”

Bethany hesitated. Thus far she had been acting mostly on instinct. Had she any true intentions? “I … would meet the rest of his people, meet their mages.”

“They have no mages.”

She was shocked. “No mages?” Were they like dwarves, permeated so with lyrium that they had no access to magic? “How interesting.”

“Indeed.” The elf watched her for a few more moments, and then he looked up at Jit-sall with a short, sharp nod. “Very well. You are under Jitzal’s protection.” Bethany marked the slight difference in the elf’s pronunciation of the name. “As long as you are with him, you are safe from retaliation—until I have the chance to speak with your sister and receive her opinion on the matter.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bethany nodded. She wasn’t surprised. Jitzal looked down at her, his broad face stretching in a smile, and reached for her injured arm. Bethany gritted her teeth as he deftly broke the arrow and pulled it out of the wound, and then she summoned her magic and healed it. Jitzal’s fingers were gentle as they rubbed the newly healed spot, and at last she could recognize the tingling warmth that filled her for what it was—a strong attraction to the big, exotic man who stood next to her. Excitement raced through her veins as she recognized in his eyes at last that the feeling was mutual.

Leliana stopped short, hearing the familiar cry in front of her. “Oghren.” She bared her teeth angrily. “An ambush! I should have known. What an imbecile I was.”

Thrand didn’t respond, but she suspected he agreed with her. 

“Very well, let them have the others. We will go after the true prize: the Warden himself.”

“By all means.”

“I think not.” 

Leliana blinked, hearing that cold, never-to-be-forgotten voice coming, as it seemed to, from Thrand’s lips. Then she took note of his wide, startled eyes and of the tree root that protruded from the front of his chest. The root receded and Thrand crumpled to his knees, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he collapsed.

And then they were alone in the clearing. “Hello, Morrigan.”

“Leliana.”

“I believe we both knew this day would come.”

“I certainly hoped that it would.”

“Then let us begin.”


	31. The Confrontation

“I am at your disposal, Morrigan. This is a day I have looked forward to.” Leliana stood her ground, confident and not seeming at all daunted by the powerful witch.

“Out of curiosity, what is it you hope to accomplish by facing me in this manner? You know that I will kill you.”

“Would Wulfric approve of such a drastic step?”

Morrigan’s lip curled in a sneer. “He does not hold me like a chained animal. We share a partnership. The fact that you cannot understand the concept is no doubt why he chose to break things off between you.”

Leliana huffed a brief laugh. “Partnership! I would have controlled him.”

“Yes, because we all saw how well that worked—“ Morrigan’s words were cut off by the knife that flew by her head; she hadn’t seen Leliana move to throw it. “You missed.”

“Not at all.” Leliana was smiling.

Morrigan glanced down and plucked the dart out of her skin. Leliana must have thrown it when Morrigan’s attention was distracted by the knife. She cursed herself for the lapse. “Poison?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Those pretty white teeth were bared now, the demons Leliana carried within her on display for once. “I would rather kill you with my hands, but for that, I must keep you on the ground.”

“Magebane.” She could feel it spreading through her, the constricting sensation of heaviness that would hold her earth-bound and separated from the powers she usually relied on. 

“I understand it is not a pleasant feeling.”

“No.” Morrigan felt little need to elaborate. “You have come a long way for what I am certain you view as your revenge, and yet I am still at a loss as to why.”

“I want him.” It was a simple statement, but filled with greed and lust. 

“He will never be yours.” Morrigan was edging to the side, where she could see a fallen branch with a sharp, jagged point that might act as a makeshift weapon. For once she cursed the shapeshifting that did not allow her to carry a hidden dagger.

Leliana smirked. “With the proper incentives, I am certain I can make him see things my way.”

“What incentives?”

“Your son. For his safety, no doubt Wulfric will see the sense in returning to Thedas and … cooperating with me.”

Rage blacked out Morrigan’s vision for a moment, and when it cleared, the branch was gone and Leliana was shaking her head.

“You are too easily distracted, my friend. I am afraid this won’t be nearly as enjoyable as I had hoped it would be.”

Easily distracted she might be when her child was threatened, but she had some advantages Leliana had not counted on and may not have imagined. Morrigan sprinted across the clearing to the small pile of sharp-edged rocks she had seen, picking one up, turning, and throwing it in a single smooth move. It glanced off Leliana’s shoulder, and Morrigan bent to grab another rock, but was knocked off balance as Leliana closed with her, grabbing Morrigan’s hair and pulling on it sharply. The mage cried out in pain. Her hands went up to try to pry Leliana’s fingers apart, and Leliana kneed her between the legs. Morrigan screamed in pain and humiliation. Leliana’s arm was near her mouth, and she bit down on it, hard, drawing blood.

“Agh!”

The pressure on Morrigan’s hair eased and she ripped the rest of it out of Leliana’s grasp, leaving a handful of black hair caught between the bard’s slender fingers. Morrigan smashed the heel of her hand into the other woman’s nose.

Leliana screamed. Her hands closed on either side of Morrigan’s head and she smashed her forehead into Morrigan’s nose. Blinding pain caused Morrigan to reel backwards, falling into the grass. Leliana kicked her in the side. Morrigan’s face hit the ground, and she swallowed a mouthful of dirt. What was she doing, allowing this woman to dominate the battle this way? Flemeth would laugh at her.

That image propelled Morrigan off the ground, imagining her mother, hands on her hips, laughing at her. She pushed herself up, whirling around and ramming her shoulder into Leliana’s midsection, causing the bard to stagger backward. Morrigan took advantage of that moment to leap at the other woman, bearing her to the ground with the momentum of the movement and jabbing her thumbs at Leliana’s blue eyes. The bard twisted her head aside just in time, putting her hands up to wrap them around Morrigan’s neck. Morrigan immediately went for the thumbs, bending them back with as much force as she possessed. She heard one crack, and Leliana squealed in pain and rage, her grip loosening. Morrigan grasped Leliana’s wrists, pulling those strong, dexterous hands away from her neck with difficulty. Leliana bucked beneath her, trying to knock Morrigan off. Morrigan held on tenaciously, but the other woman’s arms were strong, and Leliana’s carefully manicured fingernails, sharp as dagger points, were coming closer to her eyes. With a grunt, Morrigan pushed the hands open, but then they were stuck there, staring into one another’s eyes.

“What will you do now, Morrigan? Without magic, you are no match for me.”

“I have always been more than a match for you—magic or no.”

“Is that so?” Those fat lips were smiling now. “Then kill me now. If you can.” As she spoke, Leliana made a convulsive movement that knocked Morrigan off-balance. She rolled into the dirt, and then kept rolling, causing Leliana’s vicious strike with a dagger she had pulled out of her clothing to miss by a hair’s breadth. Leliana stood up; Morrigan rolled onto her back and kicked Leliana’s leg, causing the bard to fall on one knee. 

It was time to think, now. Too much reacting was playing directly into Leliana’s hands. While the other woman was down, Morrigan scrambled to her feet. She knew perfectly well that Leliana was far better trained for close contact fighting than she … but she knew equally well the consequences of losing this fight. This battle between herself and Leliana was to the death—neither of them would be satisfied with less. It was about pride, yes, and Wulfric, but it went deeper than that. It was civilization against the wilderness, magic against those who sought to chain it. She must win this fight to be able to face the greater one to come for Arthur’s safety; but she also needed to win it for herself. 

Leliana was up again now, too, and the two of them circled each other, crouched and poised to attack. The dagger was clutched in Leliana’s hand—the off hand, Morrigan noticed. Leliana’s right thumb flopped loosely; Morrigan must have broken it. Given Leliana’s skill, that was not much of an advantage, but it was some.

“Give up. You are outmatched,” the bard said, but she was panting, and her nose was running with blood from the earlier blow. She hardly sounded as menacing as she seemed to think she did.

Morrigan laughed. “So I should allow you to kill me? You know me better than to expect such foolishness.”

Leliana lashed out with the dagger. Morrigan jumped back and aimed a clumsy kick that Leliana avoided easily. 

“He will never be yours, not even if you win today.”

“Oh, not at first, no, but after a little time … He was never a man made to settle with just one person. Fortunately for him, I can be many people.” Leliana’s blue eyes were trained on her, searching, Morrigan thought, for some sign of weakness, of jealousy. 

But there was none. “He had you, and everything that you are was not enough for him. He made his choice, and he gave up the world for me. Has there ever been anyone who would have given up the world for you, Leliana?”

With a scream of rage, the bard charged. Morrigan held her ground until the last second, then dodged, grasping Leliana’s right arm as she did and pulling the bard off her feet. She held onto the arm, stomping her foot on it. The bone gave way with a sickening crack, and Leliana cried out, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Another woman might have paused, feeling pity for the wounded person lying at her feet. But Morrigan had been trained by Flemeth: pity was for fools and prey. Let those being hunted stop to weep over death and sorrow. The hunter kept on, impervious to such distractions, and fed on the weak, living to hunt another day. She took Leliana’s limp right hand in hers and smashed it backward. The cartilage popped, and Morrigan could practically feel the tendons tearing. Panting, she let go, Leliana’s arm falling helplessly on the ground. 

Leliana lay on her back, clutching her ruined hand to her, sobbing. How little it took to break the spirit of another human. She had taken Leliana’s skillset from her—even if the bard survived the fight, that hand could never be made to draw a bow again, or pluck a lute, or pick a lock. And clearly she knew it. “I will kill you!” The words wavered and lacked strength.

Morrigan lifted one leg, thrusting her booted foot toward Leliana’s throat, to end it once and for all. Leliana rolled swiftly to her right, which must have been excruciatingly painful, judging by the keening moan that came from her, but she managed to hit Morrigan’s standing leg, knocking Morrigan off balance just long enough for Leliana to lunge up and plunge the forgotten dagger in her left hand into the back of Morrigan’s thigh. Morrigan staggered, gasping, blood flowing freely from the wound. There would not be much time now—if Leliana had nicked the artery, with her magic inaccessible, Morrigan would lose consciousness and life shortly. But she would take this meddlesome Chantry tool with her. She fell to her knees, pinning Leliana’s left arm with the dagger in it to the ground, and grasped Leliana’s throat.

“No more tricks, little bird,” she said, her voice hoarse. Her fingers closed around the vulnerable cords at the front of the the throat, and she squeezed, watching Leliana’s eyes widen and feeling her legs kick as the voice, and the life, were slowly squeezed out of her.

Morrigan kept her grip until she was certain the other woman was dead, the tongue protruding from those fat lips and the blue eyes bugged out and staring up at the sky. And then she fell over, her strength ebbing with the lifeblood that flowed from her wound. The grass was slick with it. She ripped at the skirt she wore, pulling a strip of fur from it; she had specifically designed the skirt for easy removal of strips. You never knew when you might need a bandage. Her fingers trembled as she tried to tie the strip around her leg, straining to tighten it enough to stop the flow of blood. Her ears were ringing, her vision darkening. Her lips formed Arthur’s name as the blackness took her.


	32. Time Don't Run Out on Me

Fergus was pacing back and forth on a strip of dirt he had already worn bare, chafing at the inactivity, when a loud broken-hearted cry from Arthur split the air. He and Wulfric, both with the paternal instinct galvanizing them, made it to the boy’s side at the same time. Head in his hands, Arthur was rocking back and forth, keening. Wulfric pulled the boy into his arms. 

“What is it? What do you see? Is it Mama?”

Still sobbing, Arthur looked up at his father, managing to nod his head.

Wulfric’s arms were trembling, but he held himself together, meeting Arthur’s eyes. Gently but firmly he said, “We’re going to help her. Tell me what you see.”

“I—I can’t!”

“Look at me. No, look right here, right at me. Tell me what you saw. Where is your mother?”

“The clearing where we saw the big snake.”

“The anaconda?”

Arthur nodded. 

“Is she hurt?”

“I … I think so.” Fresh tears began to fall, and Arthur’s voice broke. “She doesn’t see anything. It’s all black!”

Fergus was alarmed, but Wulfric seemed relieved. “If she was dead, we’d see the Fade. I think.” He frowned. “I’m not completely clear on how his sight works.” 

“What do we do?”

“We have to get there. Arthur has some rudimentary healing skill, maybe he could—“

“What of Anders?”

“They’re far on the other side of that clearing. We’d never be able to get him and then reach Morrigan’s side in time.”

Fergus considered the situation. “It’s too bad the horses are in the other camp. Can’t waste the extra time.”

“That’s not a concern.” Wulfric put two fingers to his mouth and whistled a shrill, sharp set of notes. 

In a few moments, a long, snakelike head poked itself out from between two trees, followed by another and another. At a nod from Wulfic, the creatures hopped lightly out of the undergrowth. They stood on two legs, slightly taller than Wulfric, their tiny little front legs held over their chest as if they were clutching a pocketbook. Sharp teeth showed in their long jaws, but they sidled toward the humans almost shyly.   
Varric whistled. “Those aren’t horses.”

“They’re the horses of the Tirashan. They live near the Driazi camp, which isn’t far from here. They’re the fastest creatures in the forest, possibly in all of Thedas.” One of the creatures came toward Wulfric, laying its long head on his shoulder. He stroked the smooth mottled-grey skin. “Arthur and I will go to Morrigan. Fergus, you ride for Anders. Varric, you mind staying here by yourself? Best to have someone here in case the others come back before we find them.”

“Of course. I’ll have plenty to write about.” The dwarf was looking the slender creature over with interest, his hand making motions in the air as though he was drawing it for future reference.

Fergus held out a hand and one of the animals came toward him. “Are you sure it can hold me? I’d hate to hurt it.”

“They’re a lot stronger than they look. It’s just like riding bareback, brother.” Wulfric put Arthur on the back of one and climbed up on the one he’d been petting. With a squeeze of their legs, the animals took off, moving rapidly through the trees and underbrush until they were out of sight.

“He knows I don’t know how to get where he wants me to go, doesn’t he?” Fergus muttered, half to himself.

Varric chuckled. “Easy as pie. Take the first right, then the second left, then straight ahead.”

“Right. Perfectly easy. If there were paths!” Fergus climbed up, squeezing his legs. The motion of the creature beneath him was smooth and swift, and in no time he was passing a tree that had been marked with a bright white slash across the trunk. What had Varric said, the first right? He pressed his left knee against the creature’s side, and it turned to the right without breaking its gait. From there, Fergus watched for more of the white slashes, turning left at the second one, and then crouching low, stretching along the creature’s neck, just as he would his favorite hunter at home, and giving it its head.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Across the forest, the two animals ridden by Arthur and Wulfric pounded through the trees, needing little urging from their riders. The creatures loved nothing better than a good run. Wulfric clenched his teeth, closing his mind to the terrible visions in his head. She would not die, she would not die, she would not die. She couldn’t, and that was the end of it. In all the troubles they had faced, all the dangers, there had been one shining certainty in his life—that whatever happened to him, Arthur and Morrigan would outlast him. They would always be there.

It had never occurred to him that Morrigan could be killed like a mere mortal.

“Can you see her?” he called out to his son.

“No. No, she isn’t there!” The boy was holding himself together, but barely, his terrified little face peeking over the neck of his steed. If he thought he could have done so without falling off and breaking his neck, Wulfric would have reached out to the boy. 

Instead, he called out, “Hold on! We’re getting to her as quickly as we can!”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bethany followed Jitzal and Zevran as they moved hastily through the trees in the direction Jitzal’s people had been going. Suddenly Jitzal gave a little whistling noise, holding a hand up to stop their progress as he held perfectly still, listening. After a moment, Bethany heard the sounds, as well, and soon she could see what was making them. Two long-necked beautiful greyish-green creatures were pounding along, and on their backs rode a powerfully muscled man with black hair that streamed out behind him, and a little boy whose eyes were as big and round as silver pieces in his white, frightened face.

The man shouted something as they passed, and Jitzal’s tongue flickered out, his mouth turning down in a concerned frown and his eyes narrowing practically to slits. He turned to Bethany, lifting her arm and pointing first to her finger and then to the place on his arm where she had healed the first of his injuries. He did so several times, looking at her questioningly.

“Yes, I can heal,” she said, confused.

Something in her voice must have reassured him, because he took her hand firmly in his grasp and began moving as rapidly as he could in the direction the man and the boy had been heading in. Zevran followed them. This time, no one stopped Bethany from raising her hand to cast a spell that would give haste to their steps, and they rushed along at their top speed.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jennie was alerted to the oncoming rider’s approach by the Driazi, who all stopped working to look in the same direction with what appeared to be puzzlement and concern. Her own alarm turned to delight when she saw Fergus approaching on some kind of horse-sized lizard. He squeezed it hard with his knees, bringing it to a halt. The Driazi surrounded the beast, offering it water from their waterskins, while Fergus hurried in Jennie’s direction. 

“Where’s Anders?” he asked without preamble, although he took her hand and held it tightly, as if to reassure himself of her well-being.

“Over here. What’s going on?” The mage had been healing a minor injury one of the Driazi had suffered. He gave the healed wound a final glance before turning to Fergus.

“Morrigan is hurt, in a clearing, uh …” Fergus stopped and looked around him, trying to get his bearings, then pointed in what he hoped was the right direction. “That way.”

“’That way’? How am I supposed to find her with those directions?” Anders frowned, the healer in him already working on the problem of how to reach his patient.

The Driazi had been watching the exchange, and one of them tugged the creature Fergus had ridden toward Anders, gesturing with a lot of sibilant syllables.

Fenris watched closely. “I believe he is trying to say that he will lead you there, if you wish to ride that animal.” His tone held a trace of envy.

Anders nodded. “Why not?” He mounted up, and with the Driazi in the lead, rode in the direction Fergus had indicated.

Once he was gone, Fergus, his entire body trembling, drew Jennie close to him. His brother’s wife lay out there in this wilderness, alone and helpless. He knew all too well what that felt like. He clung to Jennie as his own fear and grief washed over him, and her arms held him close.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The blackness slowly lifted from Morrigan’s sight, and she prepared herself to open her eyes and see what the Beyond held in store for her. She hadn’t been able to tie the tourniquet tightly enough, she knew that, and no doubt her body lay in a pool of blood in the grassy clearing. Would she enter the Fade, seeing the Maker, as the Chantry believed? Would she be reborn? 

The eyes that looked down at her were a deep, rich gold, warmer than her own, and an exotic scent perfumed the air. With sight and sound came the return of pain, her leg and nose throbbing, her muscles aching. Surely this could not be the Fade, not if the injuries from her fight with Leliana still remained with her. She blinked, finally recognizing the individual who held her.

“That was some scrap you two had. Sorry I missed it. My money would have been on you, anyway; Chantry lass here was too soft.”

“Is-Isabela?” Morrigan asked, her voice a hoarse croak. The mouth of a water skin was placed between her lips, and she drank gratefully.

“Don’t move. I tightened that tourniquet, slapped a poultice on it, so the elfroot is doing its job. Should hold you until help arrives.”

“What help?”

Isabela shrugged, and Morrigan winced as the movement jostled her head, resting on Isabela’s bounteous breasts. “Couldn’t say, but with as many people are moving around in this forest, I’m sure you’ll have some.” She looked up. “Ah, here’s the man of the hour now.”

And within moments Morrigan was in Wulfric’s arms as he wept the tears of a man who has just regained his world; Arthur’s little hands were lightly touching her wounds, reassuring himself that she was in no immediate danger; and Bethany, who had arrived with Jitzal and Zevran, was kneeling next to Morrigan, her skilled hands seeking and healing each injury.

Isabela drew away, standing with Zevran, watching the little family together. “Do you wish that could have been you?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Ah, I think we both know he was looking for something other than what we had to offer.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I am not certain.”

“Liar.”

Zevran smiled. “It takes one to know one, does it not?”


	33. If We Hold On Together

The groups arrived back in camp in bits and pieces, where Varric awaited them. While he didn’t mind having volunteered to stay behind, he was sorry to have missed the many stories that appeared to have played out in the midst of the vast forest while he waited in the peace and quiet. The only movement in camp had been a large, snowy white owl that swooped across the camp. No doubt it had been chasing some kind of small prey, Varric assumed, although he hadn’t seen anything resembling a mouse. But what did he know about the eating habits of owls? He was a city boy. It was impressive enough that he was able to recognize an owl when he saw one. 

Hawke and Cousland came first, with Rowdy and the elf following them. Hawke’s hand was firmly clasped in Cousland’s big gauntlet. It warmed Varric’s heart to see it. Hawke had been through a lot since she came to Kirkwall, and she deserved to be loved and taken care of by a good man. Whether she would be able to unbend enough to pursue a successful relationship was another question altogether.

The elf pretended not to be looking for anyone when he arrived, and Varric played along by not mentioning that he hadn’t seen Rivaini in a while. Rowdy grabbed a flask and sat down to guzzle its contents, but he kept a sharp eye over the rim for Blondie. Varric felt for the other dwarf, who clearly was hunting for the Blondie he used to know in the mage, and wasn’t finding him. Justice was a stronger and stronger presence inside that shared body, and glimpsing the man Varric had first met in that squalid Darktown clinic was ever more rare. The mage and the dwarf had obviously been good friends once upon a time, but those days were long gone, and from the sadness in those bloodshot eyes, Rowdy knew it.

As it happened, Blondie was the next to arrive in camp, riding that speedy beast. Varric was, frankly, jealous. Especially since Blondie didn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all, his arms wrapped around the long, thin, scaly neck for dear life. Rowdy cackled at the mage as the creature pulled up and Blondie fell gracelessly off onto the ground. 

Two more fleet creatures came afterward. The Warden rode one, with his witch in his arms. The child rode the other, with Rivaini holding lightly to his waist. She, at least, was fully in the spirit of the ride, her head thrown back with her black hair streaming out behind her, and laughing with delight at the speed of the creature. The little boy was laughing with her, and they made a wild pair together. A swift glance said to Varric that he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the charming picture. The elf was watching her, as well, and with an expression of open, heartfelt longing in his green eyes such as Varric had never seen there. It made him glance away, not wanting to intrude on the elf’s private thoughts.

His own thoughts wandered to a different elf entirely, but resolutely he herded them away from that dangerous territory. He would not consider the fact that Zevran had yet to return.

Instead, he looked back to Rivaini, whose eyes scanned the camp with a studied casualness that might have fooled others, but didn’t fool Varric in the slightest. She couldn’t quite hide the relief she felt when she caught sight of the elf. A mischievousness danced across her face, and she leaped from the back of the still-moving creature and dashed across the camp to plant a kiss on the elf’s lips. She was gone again before his arms could quite decide whether to close around her or push her away, leaving the elf looking startled, and pleased, and bereft, and sorrowful. But not angry, which surprised Varric. Rivaini must be as good as she always said she was. 

The witch was being helped to a pallet of furs by her devoted Warden. What a story those two were! 

But Varric’s speculations were broken by the biggest surprise he’d had all day—Flash’s safe arrival in camp, the big green Driazi in tow, and with them, Sunshine. A softer-looking Sunshine than she had been when he’d seen her last, and not a prisoner. She was clearly there of her own volition.

As Varric avoided Flash’s heated glance at him, Hawke stepped forward toward her sister. “Bethany, what are you doing here?”

“I …” Bethany glanced at Jitzal, but there was no help forthcoming there. He was looking from her to Jennie and back again, and appeared to be waiting for Bethany to speak. Varric would have given the shiny buckles on his boots to know how that relationship had come about. Ah, but there was something about Sunshine. Always had been. If Varric had been a big green dragon-man, or any kind other than himself, for that matter, he’d have found Sunshine charming, as Jitzal clearly did, judging by the look he was giving her. Well, then. Varric wondered how Hawke was going to handle this turn of events.

“Out with it.” Hawke glanced at Flash, who sidesetepped, making it clear that he was not getting involved in the conversation between the two sisters. Sensible elf; Varric approved. He approved less of the fact that Flash’s sidestep brought him that much closer to Varric. Too close and Varric might just—No, no, he wouldn’t. He pulled Bianca off his back and studied her for potential scratches, instead.

Sunshine cleared her throat. “I … am sorry.”

Clearly Hawke had not expected that. “For what?”

“Attacking you.” Of course, Sunshine’s tone made it seem as though Hawke was stupid for not following the apology’s purpose, but Varric supposed it was difficult to remove your head from your own ass. The process must take time. They’d all just have to be patient while Sunshine worked it out.

“Oh. And I’m supposed to just accept that, and welcome you back into the fold with open arms?” Hawke crossed her arms instead of opening them, folding them tightly against herself. 

The two sisters stared at each other, everyone else hanging on their words. Finally, Bethany huffed an exasperated breath. “Do what you want, Jennie. You always have.”

“Like you haven’t? You can’t waltz in here and pretend nothing happened.”

“I apologized!”

“The same way you always did when Mother made you—as though it was my fault in the first place that you did something you had to apologize for! For once in your life, can’t you try to make an apology sound sincere?” Jennie shook her head. “You know what? Never mind. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.” She looked up at Jitzal. “I am glad you’re safe, and I’m happy you like her. She’s all yours.”

Hawke turned on her heel and stalked away from her sister. Sunshine looked after her, opening her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. 

“How is our wounded bird?” Flash asked. Varric jumped; he hadn’t noticed the elf creeping closer to him, and his nearness was startling. And … other things Varric didn’t want to think about.

“Looks all right. Must have been some duel, those two. I take it the witch won.”

“She did. It is no surprise; she was always the stronger. And you, my friend, how did you fare?”

“I was here, if you remember. Mostly, I was waiting for the stories to come back.”

“Is that how you think of us?” The elf’s brown eyes were startlingly serious, holding Varric’s gaze when Varric would very much have liked to turn away. “As stories, merely? Should one of us perish you would turn to a new source of entertainment?”

Varric was well and thoroughly caught, pinned squarely between the equally unappetizing choices of protesting, and thereby admitting to Flash and to himself that he had grown to care about several members of their company, or of agreeing with the elf’s comment and making himself seem shallow and heartless. “So … Sunshine and the big green guy, eh?” he said instead, hoping to deflect the other man’s attention.

There was a pause before Flash replied, as if the elf was making a conscious choice not to force the conversation backward and make Varric answer the question. “It appears so,” he said. “She must find him exotic and forbidden.”

“Not so forbidden, it turns out.”

“No. What a fortunate woman she is.” Flash made the statement flatly, then turned away to go see about the witch. Varric sighed. That situation was not going away anytime soon. He would have to decide how he wanted to deal with it at some point—Flash showed no sign of being willing to take deflections and side-stepping for an answer.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Jennie, wait, will you, please?” Fergus’s long legs allowed him to catch up with her, but she didn’t glance his way, continuing into the forest with her head down. “I would think you’d be glad to see your sister.”

She snorted. 

He stopped, calling after her, “Would you really want your last remaining family member to have been killed trying to tear apart a family?”

Jennie froze in place, her slim shoulders stiff. Slowly she turned to face him. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Try to work on my better feelings. Where my sister is concerned, I don’t have any.”

“I refuse to believe that.” Fergus took a cautious step towards her. She reminded him of a deer, poised to flee lightly over bramble and bush at any moment. He didn’t want to scare her off.

“You might as well. It’s the truth. My family … I never felt like one of them anyway. I always hoped I’d find out they stole me from someone.”

Fergus bit back his chuckle when he realized she wasn’t joking. He didn’t know what he would have done without his parents and the warmth and closeness his family had shared. What if he viewed his brother with the same coldness that Jennie felt toward her sister? His life would be immeasurably poorer for it. 

“You see? I’m a terrible person. You don’t even know what to say to me.” She was still tense and stiff, and there was a challenge in her face, as if she was daring him to care for her despite her words.

Well, he would rise to that challenge. Fergus closed the distance between them, pulling her resistant body to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “You’re not a terrible person. And I was quiet because I didn’t know how to say how much I admire you for having risen above your feelings toward your family to become the warm, compassionate person I know you are.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder, and he felt her body shudder against him before she relaxed in his arms. “Bethany,” she muttered. “She just … argh! She’s so—“

“Don’t think about that. Think about how good it is that none of us had to kill her.”

There was silence for a moment, then Jennie gave a dark chuckle. “True. I’d have been so jealous of whoever got to do the final deed.”

“Not quite what I meant, but I suppose that’s a silver lining.” He pulled back to look at her face. “You know your companions would cheerfully die for you—there’s family, if you want. You shouldn’t let your sister get under your skin.”

Jennie sighed. “She’s had a lifetime of practice; it’s not easy to ignore. But I’ll try. You’re right, I’ve made my own family. I should be more appreciative.” Her arms tightened around him.

“How far … exactly … would this appreciation extend?” Fergus raised an eyebrow at her.

A small smile played across her face. “That would depend on who was asking.”

“And if I asked? Could I, maybe, get a kiss?” He dipped his head, kissing her cheek, near the corner of her mouth.

“Maybe.” She was blushing, but she wasn’t pulling away. If anything, her face had lifted toward him, so Fergus took the opportunity to kiss her again, this time just at the corner of her mouth.

“Two kisses?”

“Don’t push your luck.” But she smiled, lighting up her blue eyes. And then she reached up on her toes and kissed him, her lips soft.

Fergus pulled her against him, trying to remember not to smother her, not to scare her off. He remembered that image of her as a doe poised to leap, and was amazed that she melted so perfectly into his arms. Her mouth opened for his, and he tried, so hard, to go slow, but she tasted so good, he wanted more. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, finding hers and stroking it. To his delight, she responded, hesitantly at first and then with the dancing flame of a just-lit fire.

It was the wrong time to push things further, he knew that, and reluctantly he pulled away, relishing the hazy look in her eyes and the lips reddened from his kisses. He wished they were back in civilization, where he could woo her with wine and fine food and gifts … but then, while that might be his idea of a wooing, Jennie seemed far more comfortable here in the wilds. As they walked back to camp, hand-in-hand, Fergus wondered if they could really manage to find happiness when their comfort lay in different places.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fenris slouched against a tree, watching the water flow. He hadn’t even bothered with the pretense of fishing this time, simply fleeing from the camp on the heels of that impulsive kiss. He had been relieved, much to his own surprise, when Isabela had returned safely to camp, and the sight of her eyes lighting up when she beheld him and the haste with which she dismounted and came toward him had been … gratifying. And those truths frightened him.

The crunch of boots on the debris of the forest floor caught his attention. Had he come here knowing she would find him? He had not been aware of doing so.

“You’re too predictable. Be careful, or I might get bored.”

“Would you? If so, I shall attempt to be as predictable as a pendulum.” He didn’t mean it, and the knowledge sunk his heart. He could not bear to let go of the invisible armor he held around himself—the idea of openness, of vulnerability … No. He would mean it. He would mean anything that would drive her away.

“That’s it, keep lying to me. You know I love it.” She was standing in front of him now, and he pulled his arms tighter against his chest to keep from doing something foolish with them.

They stood in silence, a stand-off, for several minutes, listening to the rush of the water and the screech of a bird high above their heads and the hum of insects fluttering about the flowers. 

“It’s pretty here,” Isabela remarked at last.

“Yes. It reminds me of Seheron.”

“You were happy there?”

“I don’t know what that word means.” He glared at her from under the thick sweep of his bangs. “I found … companionship there. Not of the type you might imagine, but … friends, if you will. People who trusted me, who valued me. And I was the wolf in their midst, a vicious killer they tried and failed to tame. At a word from my master, I slaughtered all that I had ever grown to care about. Do you think I would not do the same to you?”

There was a tenderness in her golden eyes, a sorrow that might have matched his. “I take a lot of killing. And if you want my condemnation for killing people you loved, you’re not getting it. Remember, I ran my ship into the rocks to keep the relic out of the Qunari’s hands—and in my own. I killed every sailor on that ship, as surely as if my own hands had driven the air from their lungs, rather than the ocean. I know what it’s like to live with guilt.” She held her hands out in front of her. “These have more blood on them than a dozen seas could wash away.”

There was more than sorrow in her voice—there were tears now, and a shining drop fell into the palm of her hand. Without thinking, Fenris reached out to wipe the teardrop away, and found himself holding her hand, clinging to it. Her head lifted, her eyes meeting his, and he pulled her against him, pressing his cheek against the kerchief that held her hair back. Isabela’s arms stole around his waist, holding him. He could not remember ever being part of a simple embrace … no anger, no deception, no lust, just the simple need for the contact and reassurance of another person’s closeness. In a panic, he tried to let go, but instead found himself tightening his grasp, as afraid to let her get away as he was to have her so close to begin with.

At last, it was Isabela who broke the embrace, stepping back and clearing her throat. “Much more of that and I’ll lose my reputation as a wanton trollop.”

“Is that so valuable?” It was simple curiosity—he found suddenly that he wanted to know more about her.

“It covers all manner of scars, real and otherwise.”

“Ah. Then your secret is safe with me.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.” And with that she was off, climbing into a tree and swinging from branch to branch as though they were the rigging of a ship. He hoped she found release in the exercise. Personally, he was wishing for something to fight, and finding nothing but his own emotions.


	34. It Don't Come Easy

Morrigan blinked, her vision clearing slowly and Wulfric’s face coming into sharp definition. Although she would certainly have denied such a charge, she had learned to admit to herself how inexpressibly dear his face was to her, and how amazed she was that she had the chance to see it every day. How far she had come since that day in the Wilds when her mother had sent her away with the two Grey Wardens and orders to come home with the Old God in her belly. 

Thoughts of Flemeth galvanized her to get up from the pallet of furs she lay on and investigate the situation as it currently stood. Flemeth was near; Morrigan could feel her mother’s presence in her bones. But what she did not know was what form the attack would take. Flemeth could invade with insidious subtlety, or she could bring all the force of her power to bear. And one could not prepare against every possibility at once.

Morrigan used Wulfric’s shoulder to help rise, pleased that her injuries appeared to be healed thoroughly—all that remained of her battle with the bard was a soreness deep in her muscles, and that would pass quickly. Yes, having another mage in this forest could be useful, she judged, watching Bethany and Jitzal as he attempted to teach her more of his tongue. The Grey Warden’s healing skills were nothing special, not compared with what Wynne had been capable of, but she was better than Morrigan, who had never had much use for healing spells in the midst of the Wilds. Or, for that matter, in the Tirashan, given her vast knowledge of herbs and their medicinal properties. Still, it was useful to have a healer nearby, and Bethany would do well with the tribe. The Driazi viewed magic with a measured distrust; they found it a useful tool, but were not awed by it. A refreshingly practical point of view, and one that Morrigan had always appreciated. It was not dissimilar to her own. Growing up in the Wilds, she had learned to look on those without magic with disdain, but her experiences in the Blight and afterward had taught her that magic was like any other skill. Its value depended on the wielder.

The camp was running with efficiency, which pleased Morrigan. In the years since they had hunted together as children, Hawke had grown into a competent woman, even if she did not seem to realize that herself. Fergus would no doubt be a good influence, however—everything Wulfric had told her about his family indicated that they were people of courage and intelligence, if a certain softness that Morrigan, who had been raised by Flemeth, could not share. She considered herself fortunate to live so far from other humans; here in the Tirashan, there were few moral dilemmas to argue with Wulfric over. 

Nonetheless, there was no time to waste. The attack from Flemeth would come when she least expected it, and the single precious life Flemeth lusted after would be hers if Morrigan was not on her guard at all times. She lifted her head and scanned the sky—it was empty for now, but she felt her mother coming, deep inside her skin. Flemeth was near, that much Morrigan was certain of, and she would not wait much longer.

Wulfric could clearly sense her tension. He was looking at her anxiously, waiting for her to speak. Morrigan wished there was time to talk about the fight with Leliana. Not that she was concerned what Wulfric might think about the bard’s passing, not … entirely … but she longed for time alone with him, to hold and be held and to assure herself that all was still well between them. 

She chided herself for foolishness as they walked through the camp, settling for reaching for his hand. A mundane gesture, to be certain, but surprisingly comforting. Wulfric’s hands were large and strong and extremely skilled. In Morrigan’s view, they were amongst the best parts of him. Holding one was reassuring.

Fergus and Hawke were holding hands as well, Morrigan noticed, spying them returning from the forest. Slightly mussed, as well, she observed. She certainly hoped their emotions would not distract them from the task at hand. For that matter, she could see that the preoccupation with bodily needs that had characterized all their Blight companions—including, and indeed spurred by, Wulfric, of course—was rampant amongst these new companions as well. She had no time for the lot of them, and wished they could conduct their liaisons on their own time rather than in the midst of the greatest crisis to face Thedas in generations. If Flemeth ever got her claws on Arthur …

“She won’t.” Wulfric’s voice was implacable. She shook her head, still not quite used to the way he could read her thoughts. She prided herself on being less predictable than that.

“You are very certain.”

“Of course I am. Because I will rip the flesh from her bones with my teeth if I have to, if that’s what it takes to keep her away from our son.”

Morrigan nodded. “As will I.” She cleared her throat, straightening her spine. “Very well. Let us take stock of where we are and begin to formulate a plan.” They were heading out of camp now, everyone behind them occupied in domestic tasks.

“Shouldn’t we call the others together for this?” 

“And announce it all in great detail to Flemeth, in whatever form she’s currently chosen? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I wonder why you’re bothering to consult with me, then. Shouldn’t you be making your plans in the privacy of your own mind, where not even Flemeth can eavesdrop?” He spoke lightly, but there was an edge in his voice that told her he was not happy.

Nonetheless, his assumption was flawed. “I am not convinced she cannot hear my thoughts.” Scanning the sky, Morrigan shivered. “She has skills and abilities beyond what anyone can guess.”

“You make her sound unbeatable.” It was a familiar conversation, one they had on a regular basis. “If it’s that bad, why did we bother to come here at all?”

“To delay the inevitable. To give Arthur as much time as we could to grow into his abilities. I am simply not certain if it was enough.”

“He’s a little boy! Of course it wasn’t enough.”

Morrigan caught at Wulfric’s wrists, holding him still in front of her. “You know that, and I know that … but Flemeth, just possibly, may not know that. We have watched him grow up, we know how much of the child there is in him, but she expected the Old God to manifest in a purer sense. She will be prepared for his power to be much greater than it is. Somewhere in that misperception must lie our chance.”

From a tree above her head came a lazy voice. “I always appreciate a plan based on someone else’s misperceptions. Those never go awry.”

“Zevran!” Morrigan snapped. “Come down from there!”

“I do hope you are not going to tell me to cease eavesdropping, beautiful one. I thought we were past such ridiculous suggestions long ago.” Obligingly he dropped from the tree, landing lightly in front of them. “Yet again, we three must face a hopelessly outnumbered situation in which our enemy holds all the cards. Well, in that case, what you need is one well-trained in shadow who can look into the opponent’s hand.”

“Not to mention an extremely skilled cheat.” Varric’s voice came from Morrigan’s right, and she turned to see the dwarf leaning against a tree with his arms folded, smirking at her. 

Wulfric laughed. “And you thought we could have a private conversation.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Morrigan allowed. Narrowing her eyes at the elf and then at the dwarf, and then shifting her gaze to the camp in general, she gave the matter serious thought. If she was not able to prevent their companions from eavesdropping on a private conversation, she would be even less able to prevent them from attempting to assist her in the fight against Flemeth. In that circumstance, far better to be planning their assistance herself, rather than have them assume they knew what they were doing and ruin things at the last minute. When she had called Fergus to the Forest, she had been thinking more of Wulfric’s need for his brother’s support than of any substantive assistance the nobleman could muster … but admittedly he had brought them a selection of the finest fighters in Thedas. Surely Morrigan could make of this group a force that could at least delay Flemeth long enough to secure an escape for Arthur. 

There was even an outside chance that they could join all their forces to defeat Flemeth, but it would need to be a very delicately balanced plan. Morrigan tapped her foot, the pieces slowly beginning to come together in her mind.


	35. Broken Wings

The camp was silent and dark, everyone asleep in their tents. Well, other than the person on watch, but Flemeth had no concerns about evading him. He had plans of his own, and he was locked in his head as he worked on them.

The owl fluttered into the center of camp. As the talons touched the ground, they became boots, and Flemeth stood, feeling her renewed power coursing through her veins. How foolish Morrigan had been to think she understood what Flemeth wanted, and how she intended to get it. And brave little Wulfric, facing down dragons for his love, doing exactly what Flemeth had intended to do all along. Some part of Flemeth that dimly recalled what it was to be human was glad they’d had their time together. They’d certainly worked hard enough to get it.

But that was over now. They had brought the child into the world and gotten it past the necessary crying and nappies phase; now Flemeth would take it, and raise it properly, and with the power of the Old God behind her would bring plans long dormant into full fruit.

She could hear the call of Urthemiel’s soul, and she followed it toward the tent where he lay sleeping. As she paused with her hand on the flap, she had to admit to some disappointment. Hawke and Cousland both here, with her Morrigan, and all their extraordinary companions, and yet it was still this easy? A couple of trifling little traps, easily disarmed—had the assassin truly thought those would slow her down?   
It was almost too bad. Flemeth had rather looked forward to the fight in which she would kill them all. Still, it was hard to complain about a simple in-and-out job.

Pulling aside the flap, she reached out to draw the child to her with her power—and reeled back as a blinding flash of lightning cracked down on her. With her hair smoking, she screamed a curse, hoping to catch whoever lay in wait inside the tent in a prison made of the horrors in their own mind. To her surprise, the tent collapsed, empty. No! The child had been there! 

More calmly, she realized that Morrigan must have known she was there, and fled the tent out the back. So. It would not be this easy. But apparently there would be a fight after all, and that would be amusing.

The first task, then, was to remove herself, since her attempt to sneak in and retrieve the child unnoticed had failed. She shifted quickly to the owl; as she sped away from the camp, a crossbow bolt flew past her, grazing a wing. It burned; poison. Someone was a bit too proficient with their weapon. The crossbow would have to go, Flemeth thought venomously.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Returning to the camp in her hastily assumed spider form, with Arthur accompanying her, Morrigan shifted back once she was certain the camp was clear and her mother was gone.

Varric was reloading Bianca, talking gently to the crossbow and patting it on the stock. Morrigan shook her head. The dwarf might be a fool, but he had hit Flemeth; Morrigan had heard the owl’s cry of pain as it flew away. “That was a proficient shot,” she said to him.

“Bianca doesn’t think so.”

“You could not have killed her. As far as I know, it is not possible to give Flemeth a true death,” Morrigan said, hoping the words were more reassuring to the dwarf than they were to herself.

“I might have brought her down, so we could do … whatever it is we intend to do to her once we have her.”

Hawke had come out of her own tent. “What exactly is that?”

“What?”

“What we intend to do to her. You say your mother can’t be killed permanently; how exactly do you intend to see to it that your son remains safe from her, if that’s the case?”

“There is a spell. It will bind her to an amulet that I have made. The way she bound a part of herself in the amulet you carry, except in this case it will be against her will. She will not find it easy to escape from,” Morrigan promised grimly.

“And you think you can accomplish this spell?” Fenris asked, looking skeptical, as he often did when magic was part of the equation.

“If the rest of you can catch her and wound her, allowing me the time to complete the spell, then I can,” Morrigan said. It was difficult to admit that she actually needed the assistance of these people.

“Hmph.” The elf kept any further comments to himself.

Zevran crossed his arms over his chest. “How do we know she is not listening to this entire conversation?” 

“She would not approach the camp while wounded—she will want the upper hand when she returns.”

“And how long will that be?” Hawke asked.

Varric frowned. “Ask Flash. It’s his poison.”

“Not as long as we might like—I could not find all the ingredients I needed and so it is a weak poison only. But your bolts and my brews make a fine combination, do they not?” he asked Varric.

“Good enough. Better if Bianca hadn’t pulled.” He stroked the crossbow’s stock, his brow furrowed in concern.

“We may as well all get a bit more sleep,” Morrigan judged. “I will consider what is best to be done in preparation for the next attack, and we will discuss it in the morning.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Everyone else turned in, but Varric stayed awake, sitting by the fire and fiddling with Bianca’s firing mechanism. He hadn’t missed that badly since the very beginning of their relationship, when he was still nervous around the fine lady who was to be his. He spoke to her soothingly as he cleaned and polished every piece. Had she been feeling neglected?

“You spend a great deal of time fussing over that weapon.” It was Flash’s voice, and Varric looked up to see the elf standing near the fire in a pose that pretended to be relaxed but wasn’t.

“She’s worth it. Bianca’s saved my bacon more times than I can count.”

“But she strikes me as rather … pointy to take to bed, is she not?”

“You going to argue that you wouldn’t be pointy if I took you to bed?” He glanced up at the elf with a sardonic smile.

Flash threw back his head and laughed, his white teeth shining in the firelight. “You have me there, my friend. Or, rather, I wish you did. I would be very pleased to be pointy for you. At least in my case, the pointiness would be of the nonlethal variety.”

“That’s not what she said,” Varric deadpanned. 

“True. Perhaps I should rephrase—where you are concerned, the pointiness would be of the nonlethal variety.”

“I’m flattered.”

“But are you tempted?”

Varric had to make a conscious effort to relax his fingers, which had tightened around Bianca’s stock until the knuckles were white. He knew why she had missed, as surely as if her sweet voice had told him. And here he was, stuck between a very hard crossbow and a very pliant elf. 

Flash took his silence to mean assent—which Varric would have been hard put to deny.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private?”

“Don’t push your luck.” The words came out with a harder edge than Varric had intended; he resented this beautiful elf who had come along to distract Varric and throw his life into turmoil. He had been perfectly happy as Bianca’s devoted servant. “Temptation is a long way from action … and isn’t guaranteed to lead to it.”

“But it is a start, and as such, I will take it as a good sign.” 

Flash disappeared into the darkness, leaving Varric to rub his sulking crossbow in a futile attempt to convince her he was still whole-heartedly hers.


	36. One Way or Another

In the days after Flemeth’s failed attack, tensions ran higher in the camp, and people were quick so snap at each other. Morrigan and Hawke bristled over who was in charge; Wulfric and Fergus revived some old childhood arguments and nearly came to blows. Fenris snarled at Varric over an elegantly phrased remark that he took as an insult; Anders and Oghren argued over something that had happened at Vigil’s Keep long ago, but there were greater tensions beneath the surface. Bethany managed to stay out of most of the unpleasantness because she mostly stayed with the Driazi, and was very happy that way, but she and Jennie managed to snipe at one another a few times. Only Zevran and Isabela seemed unaffected. The heightened nerves only served to make both of them seem more bonelessly relaxed and more amused at the foibles of their companions. They responded to barbed remarks with lazy smiles that only served to further infuriate the remarkers.

The rain wasn’t helping. It was a warm rain that felt thick and viscous on the skin, not refreshing at all, and it fell steadily for three or four days straight. Wulfric and Morrigan usually retreated high up to their cave during these rainy periods, and the lack of their usual routine wasn’t helping Arthur at all. He kept falling into tantrums that set everyone’s teeth on edge.

“If this keeps up, I’m willing to go look for Flemeth myself,” Jennie said, staring out into the rain through her open tent flap. 

“Not without me, you’re not.” Fergus took her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb.

She glanced at him, fighting the urge to pull her hand from his grasp. With nothing to do but wait and try to prepare for an attack that could come from anywhere at any time, Fergus’s focus was more sharply on Jennie than she was entirely comfortable with. She was learning to trust him, slowly, but this much togetherness was a bit more than she was ready for. Looking away from him, she returned to the other topic uppermost in her mind. “Why doesn’t she come?”

“I’m sure she’s trying to drive us all crazy. And maybe that poison of Zev’s took longer to clear from her system than she’d planned.” Fergus seemed maddeningly calm, and Jennie restrained herself from snapping at him only with an effort.

Lightning flashed and cracked outside suddenly, and when the air had cleared, a woman stood in the middle of the camp, surrounded by an orb of blue light.

Jennie got immediately to her feet; the last time she’d seen this woman, she had been preparing to turn into a dragon and fly off the top of Sundermount. Exiting the tent, Jennie cleared her throat loudly. “Nice entrance, Flemeth.” Behind her, she hoped the plan was being set in motion.

“It is a small world, isn’t it, Hawke?” Flemeth asked, a knowing little smile playing over her lips. “One seems to keep running into old friends.”

“We’re friends? I’m flattered.”

“You should be.” The smile was still there, but the words had a deadly edge to them. “Ah, and I see your friend the elf has joined you in your attempt to spare Morrigan from the consequences of her actions. Hello, ser elf.”

Fenris was standing at Jennie’s shoulder, and she could feel him stiffen as Flemeth’s attention turned toward him, but he nodded his head respectfully enough. 

“And the others? Scrambling around in the bushes in an attempt to hide Urthemiel from me?” Flemeth’s piercing eyes turned on the trees and brambles behind the tents as if she could see movement back there. Jennie resisted the urge to turn and look to see if any movement was actually visible. Not that Flemeth needed confirmation, but there was no point in giving her assurance of a target.

“You said I’m trying to spare Morrigan, but that’s not true,” she said, trying to draw Flemeth’s attention back to herself. “It’s the child I’m thinking of.”

“That is no child, girl. That is Urthemiel reborn.”

“To you, maybe. To me he seems like a little boy, no different from you or me.”

“No different from me, perhaps,” Flemeth said. “But from you?” She snorted. “Do not try to understand things that are beyond your ken, little Hawke. Maybe I made a mistake all that time ago—should I have given my amulet to your sister, instead?”

“Maybe you should’ve,” Jennie said drily. “I’m sure Bethany would have jumped at the chance to be your apprentice. Of course, eventually you’d have gotten tired of her mouth and killed her, and then where would we all be?”

“What if I tire of your mouth?”

“You couldn’t hear me if you left.”

Flemeth threw her head back, laughing. While she was distracted, Wulfric emerged from the forest behind her, setting himself carefully and casting what appeared to be a holy smite on her. Jennie hadn’t known the Hero of Ferelden had Templar training.

The shield around Flemeth wavered for a moment, then held, and with a careless flick of her hand Wulfric flew through the air, landing on the ground far behind her. She didn’t bother to look backward, but Jennie could see as he tried to rise and collapsed. Flemeth shook her head. “I’m sorry he did that. I rather liked him.”

Jennie kept her eyes on Flemeth and away from Wulfric, who was being dragged off into the underbrush. Hopefully Bethany could help him. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Child, I have barely begun. When my plans come to fruition, all of Thedas will know it. Enough? I have done nothing. Yet.”

“What plans?” Fenris asked.

“Surely you don’t imagine your minds can comprehend these things, do you, slave?”

He shrugged, unimpressed with the old woman’s sharpness.

Flemeth shifted her attention back to Jennie. “You cannot touch me through this shield; the only person who could have forced me to drop it has failed in that attempt. Possibly at the cost of his life. And I could kill you with a snap of my fingers if I chose to do so. You see, you have no choice but to give me the boy. One way or another, I will have him.”

“Will you? You’d like us to think it’s your whimsy that makes you leave us alive. But that’s not the whole story, is it, Flemeth? You’re too practical to be ruled by such caprices. And you know you will not have that boy unless you take out each one of us first.”

“Is that a promise … Hawke?” She pronounced the name with exaggerated civility. “Do you truly pledge yourself and every one of your people to the protection of this woman’s child, this woman who is all but a stranger to you?”

“I do.” Jennie didn’t flinch, or look around to see if Fenris supported her.

“Then who do I take first? This elf here? Or do you offer yourself as the sacrifice I must go through in order to achieve what I want?”

“If you must, you’re welcome to try.” What was she saying? The odds of her standing against Flemeth for half a minute were basically zero. But she didn’t think she was in any danger. If Flemeth had wanted them dead, they would all have been dead already. There was something more there, which was why Jennie had been chosen to stand against Flemeth when she came—of them all, it had been determined she stood the best chance of getting any information out of the witch. Morrigan had been darkly pessimistic about the chances of success, and Jennie had to admit it appeared the other woman had been right. Flemeth would reveal nothing she did not want to reveal. It was time to attack. 

Evidently she wasn’t the only one who had thought so. Fenris gave her a violent shove and threw her to the ground as something large and predatory came down out of the sky, sharp beak stretched out as it hurtled directly toward Flemeth. At the same time, Fenris’s markings flared to life. As the bird closed in on Flemeth, so did he, both of them moving at impressive speeds. Flemeth stood her ground. When Fenris reached it, the lyrium in his markings caused the shield to flicker just long enough for both Fenris and the bird to breach it. Jennie was relieved to see it—they hadn’t been sure that would work. 

All three combatants were obscured by the combination of Flemeth’s shield attempting to reconstitute itself and the dust kicked up by their scuffle. There was a cry from Fenris, a squawk from the bird, and as the dust began to settle it became clear that Fenris had the sharp beak in his hand and his other arm was trying to phase inside the giant bird’s chest. Flemeth was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared in the scuffle, apparently deciding she was better off trying another day than fighting her way through. 

Jennie ran forward to separate the combatants. The bird became Morrigan, standing with her hands on her hips and screaming at the elf. “You let her get away! I had her in my sights—I could have finished this once and for all!”

“I let her get away? You knocked her out of my grasp. I could have had her!” Fenris was as angry as Jennie had ever seen him.

Pushing the two of them apart, Jennie said firmly, “Enough! Clearly, we shouldn’t have had both of you attack at once. Next time—“

“Next time? You think there will be a next time? Pah! She has tried the easy way twice. When she comes again, no doubt she will not hesitate to kill us all.” Morrigan’s eyes were flashing, but there was fear there. Deep inside, Jennie could see that the witch didn’t truly believe she could defeat her mother. She wondered how much of the problem that was. If Morrigan was crippled by her certainty of failure, how could she plan effectively for success?

More quietly, Jennie asked, “How is Wulfric?”

“Bethany says he will live. His ribs were cracked, and one came dangerously close to his lung.” Morrigan bit her lip. “I did not think she would harm him, of all people. Me, perhaps, but … not him.”

“She said she didn’t want to.”

“Flemeth would say whatever she thought would gain her own ends.”

“True enough.” Jennie nodded. “Now what?”

“She will try again. I doubt she will be so bold as to walk into the camp again—her next attempt will be something else we do not expect.”

“We’ll be ready.” Jennie wasn’t sure she believed that, but what else was there to say? They had to be ready; there was no other choice.


	37. Wild Night

Flemeth’s second attempt had gone a long way toward defusing the tensions within the camp. No longer tense from waiting, they were all actively angry—and making this particular group angry wasn’t something Jennie would have ever wanted to do, that much she was sure of. Preparations were at a fever pitch, and sparring matches were near-constant, everyone wanting to learn as much from each other as they could. The entire mood of the camp had shifted. Jennie found it pleasantly ironic that Flemeth herself had been the means of bringing them together and solidifying them all as a single team. 

Except for Morrigan. The mage kept herself to herself, even shutting out Wulfric. At all hours of the night, she could be seen poring over an old black book, or pacing the perimeters of the camp muttering. Wulfric seemed concerned, but not anxious, so Jennie and the others took their cue from him and gave the mage some space. Wulfric was recovering from the injuries Flemeth had dealt him, but more slowly than Bethany would have liked. She watched him worriedly, wringing her hands. Bethany had never been much of a healer, unlike Anders. But Anders hadn’t gone near Wulfric in his recovery, and had gone blue with Justice the one time Oghren had approached him about it, leaving the dwarf bewildered and hurt. Bethany was left on her own to do the healing. Fortunately for all of them, Wulfric was supremely healthy … but it would be a while before he would be effective in a fight again, especially one against Flemeth. Oghren, Fergus, and Fenris would have to take the brunt of any frontal assault Flemeth might choose to mount. Jennie hoped that, having been bold and straightforward in her first two attempts, Flemeth would use more subtlety in her next. Zev, Isabela, and Varric, not to mention Jennie herself, were more than capable of handling subtlety, even from Flemeth.

The child Arthur was restless and unhappy, fidgeting and fussing unless he was in the presence of one of his parents. Given Wulfric’s slow recovery and Morrigan’s distraction, that had proven difficult to maintain. The rest of the group were straining to find ways to keep the boy entertained. Jennie found him a bit frightening—she liked children well enough, she supposed, but this one was odd, and she couldn’t help straining to see the old god in the eyes of the little boy. So far, she’d seen little sign of it outside the battle, when he had looked through his mother’s eyes.

After his parents, Varric, not too surprisingly, seemed to keep Arthur calmest. They spent hours together by the fire, Varric telling stories with Arthur’s big eyes fixed on him, while the others gave them a wide berth. Arthur wasn’t used to so many people, and he found it stressful to be too crowded.

It was getting toward late evening a few days after Flemeth’s recent visit. Varric was telling another long, involved story, while Arthur listened, occasionally glancing around in search of one of his parents. The steady thunk, thunk of Isabela practicing with her throwing knives could be heard nearby. Jennie was leaning against a tree, watching them all, thinking that it was a lovely camp, and that if they weren’t all waiting for an ancient evil to snatch up a child she could be perfectly happy here.

What startled her, she couldn’t have said, but suddenly she was moving, her hands reaching for her bow, as a giant bird of prey swooped silently through the air and caught Arthur by the shoulders, climbing effortlessly back into the sky with him. Varric had moved almost as swiftly as Jennie, brandishing Bianca and aiming her at the bird. The bolt, hastily shot, narrowly missed hitting Arthur as the bird twisted in the air and spat a stream of some kind of green liquid directly into Varric’s unprotected face. The dwarf cried out in agony, falling backward on the ground. Bianca flew from his hands, landing near the fire, her stock scorching from the proximity to the heat. 

Wings beating strongly, the bird made for the sky. Jennie focused, putting aside the screams of her friend, the movement around the campfire, the stricken white face of the child. The world narrowed to her arrow and the bird’s powerful wing. 

She knew as soon as she loosed the arrow that it would hit its mark. The scream of pain and anger the wounded bird gave added to the cacophony. Varric’s cries were receding into sobs; he had taken the spray of acid full in the face and then had covered his face instinctively with his hands, so that they were coated with the acid likewise. Zev knelt next to him, rummaging frantically through his bag for a remedy, cursing in voluble Antivan. Jennie thought with despair of Bethany, in the Driazis’ camp, but there was no time to go for her sister. The bird was falling from the sky, its wing unable to support it. The child was struggling in the wickedly sharp claws, trying to get free. 

Everyone else in camp was in motion, shouting at each other as they took up positions around the perimeter. Except Anders. Where in the Void was Anders? Jennie thought, searching the darkness for the mage. Varric’s pathetic sobs tugged at her heart—she’d never heard the dwarf make any such sound before.

Jennie loosed another arrow at the falling bird, aiming at the body, hoping to end it once and for all. But as the arrow left the bow the bird lost its hold on Arthur. The resulting shift in weight allowed the bird to gain a bit of altitude on its good wing, although it was swerving crazily in the sky. The arrow missed entirely, and Arthur, his own shapeshifting ability apparently forgotten in his terror, plummeted toward the earth. Fergus sprinted across the dirt as fast as his armor would allow him to go, managing to get under the boy’s body just in time to catch him, falling to the ground under the force of the child’s landing.

The bird squawked in rage and pain above them. It was coming down, sharp beak pointed toward Fergus, who rolled away, cradling Arthur to his chest. He got to his feet, more nimbly than Jennie would have thought he could. She saw him embrace Arthur and whisper something in the little boy’s ear before tossing him to Oghren. The dwarf tucked the boy over his shoulder and disappeared into the underbrush. Zev had apparently given up on finding a counteractant for the acid burns on Varric’s face and hands and was dragging the dwarf out of the way. As he passed Bianca he kicked the crossbow away from the fire, leaving it lying forlorn in the camp, stock blackened.

The bird landed as Jennie shot another arrow at it. For a moment, as her eyes met those of the bird, she could see Flemeth in its face. Then, with a sharp cry, the bird’s form began to alter. The feathers fell off shimmering away into the air as the body stretched and grew and expanded. Magical energy surrounded the body, and Jennie’s arrows bounced off of the barrier. One nearly hit Fergus in the face, and she stopped firing until the transformation was completed.

At last, a dragon stood before them, red and shining and massive, with glittering black eyes that looked down on them all with something approaching triumph. Fergus attacked immediately, shouting at the dragon to catch its attention and hacking away at a front leg with his sword, undaunted by the beast’s appearance, and Jennie resumed her archery, hoping her arrows would pierce the dragon’s eye. The dragon kicked at Fergus, who dodged the clawed foot. Swiftly and silently, Fenris was with them, his blade held aloft and the lyrium shining in his skin. It occurred to Jennie, as she continued to fire arrows that never quite reached the dragon’s eye, to wonder what the elf really thought of this journey they were on. Given Fenris’s overall views on magic and its users, he must consider the child Arthur’s very existence to be a terrible mistake—yet here he was, fighting valiantly in the little boy’s defense.

Isabela was in the trees, a dagger poised to throw, but the dragon moved—with surprising agility for a creature that size—and the dagger bounced harmlessly off its thick hide.

A piercing cry split the air, and another bird, the same kind as Flemeth had been, but larger, hurtled through the air, sharp beak pointed straight at the dragon. The almost human notes of rage and desperation in its voice were unmistakably Morrigan’s. Jennie held her arrow, not wanting to hit Morrigan as the bird and dragon closed in battle with one another. Slinging her bow on her back, Jennie drew her daggers and joined the combat, finding Isabela next to her as she reached the dragon’s flank. With the dragon’s focus largely on the bird, Jennie thought she might have a chance to take out the tendon in the back of the dragon’s leg, crippling it that way. Fenris and Fergus, with their longer reaches, were attempting to slash the dragon’s wings.

A blast of flame singed the flesh of the attacking bird, and the dragon made a sound that reminded Jennie of Flemeth’s cackle. The bird raked its talons across the dragon’s nose, sending blood spraying across the campsite, landing in the fire with a sizzle.

“Hawke, you think there are creatures in this jungle attracted to the smell of burning blood?” Isabela asked, avoiding a sudden kick of the dragon’s meaty leg.

Jennie didn’t even want to think that way, and from the mad grin Isabela tossed her before rolling out of the path of a stream of fire-breath, the pirate knew it. 

As the battle dragged on, they were all tiring. Fergus and Fenris were hacking away at the wings whenever they had a chance, holding their swords in the air above their heads at awkward angles they couldn’t maintain for long—and the position kept them from being able to dodge the dragon’s attacks as agilely as they would have managed to do under more typical combat circumstances. Isabela was more able to dance around at the dragon’s feet, but she’d taken a nasty blow to the head from one of the wings and seemed a bit slower on the dodge than usual. Zevran still had charge of protecting the wounded: Wulfric, who Jennie assumed must be in agony listening to the fighting and not able to take his rightful place in it, and Varric, the severity of whose injuries Jennie wasn’t sure of yet. They must be extensive, she imagined, because Bianca still lay forgotten in the middle of the camp. If Varric was in his right mind, Bianca would have been in his right hand. The thought of her friend seriously injured stung Jennie’s eyes dangerously with tears. She blinked them away, dodging a blow from a clawed foot. She felt the edge of the claw catch in her hair, which she hadn’t cut recently, and tug. A sharp pain indicated that the claw had taken some of the tangled mop with it.

Jennie ignored the wound—she’d worry about her hair later, after they won this fight. If they won this fight. She hoped Oghren had carried Arthur someplace defensible. Disgusting as the dwarf was, she had the impression he would gladly give his life to save Wulfric’s child. 

The one name missing, other than Bethany, who was in the Driazi camp too far away to help even if she knew about the attack, was Anders’s. Where was that mage? Jennie thought in frustration, hacking away at the tough dragon-hide with her dagger. All this sawing was dulling the blade, but she appeared to have little other choice at this point. They needed magic—healing, for Varric, and destructive, against the dragon—and there was none to be had.

The bird’s buffeting wings were slowing, and while the dragon was bleeding from a dozen wounds, it wasn’t tiring at all. If they didn’t get some kind of help, Jennie thought in despair, they were going to lose this battle.


	38. If I Turn You Away

Zevran, peering out from the tent where he stood vigilant over the two wounded men, could see what Jennie had already noted—that Flemeth the dragon was winning as the fighters tired. He despaired, knowing that there was little he could do one way or the other. Perhaps if the mage, either of the mages, were there, they could add their skills to the fight. They weren’t really needed for healing—magic had already done as much as it could for Wulfric. His body had to heal the damaged ribs the rest of the way. And Varric’s injuries were beyond the aid of magic. Zev had realized the extent with a sinking heart after he had dragged Varric into the tent and had a chance to look at what the acid had done to the dwarf’s face. The hands would heal; Zev had found a salve that would counteract the acid burns and help restore movement and utility to the dwarf’s hands and fingers. But his face—those all-seeing eyes appeared to be permanently blinded, if Zev was any judge of such things. He dreaded having to break that news to the valiant, brash dwarf who had somehow become so important to Zev over the course of their travels.

“Flash.” The dwarf’s voice was a harsh croak.

“You spoke?”

“Don’t sugar-coat it.”

“What is it they say, a teaspoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?” Where he had dredged that one up from, Zev wasn’t certain, but it sounded good.

Wulfric, restlessly peering below the edge of the tent, snorted at that. “That’s not how you used to help the medicine go down in my day.”

Zev shrugged. “Things change.”

“Apparently.” Wulfric winced at something he saw. “That’s it. I’m not sitting here any longer letting other people fight my battles. I killed that dragon once; I can do it again.” He cast a sidelong glance Zev’s way. “And if you remind me that I was younger then, I’ll—“

“No need. You will do yourself more harm than good sitting here and watching, I know. If I believed in the Maker, I would ask him to watch over you.”

Wulfric huffed a humorless laugh. “Ditto.” He didn’t bother with armor; still clad in his loincloth, he caught up a strange oblong of carved wood, about four feet long, and a bundle of spears. Seeing those in the corner, Zev had wondered about them, but there hadn’t seemed to be a good time to ask. Now at least he would get to see the strange equipment in action.

Once Wulfric had gone, there was silence in the tent, until Varric spoke again, the effort clearly painful for him. “You can go, too. Nothing to do here but babysit a blind dwarf.”

“If I thought I could be of assistance, I would do so, my friend. But there is little I can do against a dragon that is not already being done. Best to keep myself—and you—in reserve. We will sell our lives dearly should it come to that, eh?”

Varric’s hands moved, clutching a phantom Bianca. “Is it that bad?”

Zev’s silence appeared to answer the question; he could not seem to find the right words.

The dwarf had no trouble doing so, however. “Damn that Blondie. He’s not out there, is he?”

“No. Perhaps he has found Oghren and is helping with the boy?”

“Maybe,” Varric muttered, but sounded unconvinced. 

“If I knew how to call them, I would find one of those swift steeds and ride for the Driazi camp. Hawke’s sister could be of great use to us, as I imagine the Driazi themselves would,” Zev said, almost to himself, as he watched the battle. Everyone outside the tent appeared to be moving underwater—the weariness in them was almost palpable.

“I know the call.”

“What?” Zev turned from the open flap to find Varric looking at him with a hint of his old cockiness.

“I learned it from the Driazi, that and … Huh.” The dwarf was frowning, his damaged flesh puckering in a way that looked quite painful to Zev. “Flash, how are you with languages?”

Zev was affronted that Varric even needed to ask. “Please.”

“Do you think you could mimic the Driazi’s calls? I … I can’t, at least, not at the moment.” Varric winced with the effort of speaking.

“Your voice should recover eventually.”

“A ringing endorsement. Good to know.” They were silent for a moment, then Varric coughed. “No time to lose, Flash. You remember that big son-of-a who runs around in this forest?”

“The one with the small arms and the enormous teeth? Yes, he is rather memorable.”

“I know how to call him.”

“You—“ Zev blinked. “You do? Is that wise?”

“You’re a big honking king of the forest and you’re called by people you trust to feed you—who do you go after, the tiny insignificant little beings that are only a mouthful or two, or the big dragon who’s a threat to your way of life?”

“That is an excellent point. Teach me.”

It was not an easy process. Varric’s vocal damage, temporary as it was, caused his pronunciations to be slightly off to Zev’s ears; the tension of the situation was heightened by the cries of the people fighting the dragon; and both of them were all too keenly aware of the passage of time, and frustrated by it. 

Zev had a natural ear for languages, but the Driazi language had a different set of base sounds than any he had learned before. He was surprised and impressed that Varric had picked it up so quickly. He came close several times, and Varric frowned, trying to decide exactly how close they needed to get.

His burned fingers were on Zev’s face, tracing the shape of his mouth, since he couldn’t see it for himself. “Round the mouth a little more, Flash.” 

Obediently, Zev did so, trying the call again in a soft tone that wouldn’t carry outside the tent. They couldn’t risk calling the wrong animal, or calling the animal they wanted in the wrong way.

“Closer. More like this.” Varric demonstrated again, and Zev tried to mimic his sound exactly.

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s it! Try one more time.”

Zev did so.

“You’ve got it, Flash.” 

His fingers were still lingering on Zev’s mouth, and without thinking Zev turned his head and kissed the fingertips.

Varric pulled his hand away as if the kiss had been as toxic as Flemeth’s acid. “Don’t patronize me, Zevran.”

It was the first time Varric had used his real name, and Zev froze.

There was a dullness to the dwarf’s usually lively voice as he said, “It’s been fun, but it’s not even close to believable any longer.”

“Why? Because you can no longer see? The worth of a man is not judged by the workings of his eyes.”

“I’m a burden. Nothing more.”

“The Crows would not have seen you so. They had many different duties they gave to those who had been crippled in some way.” Others might have shrunk from the hard word, but Zev didn’t. “Do you know that the other senses sharpen to compensate for the loss of one?”

Shaking his head, Varric said, “Time’s wasting, Flash.”

“Varric.” Zev put his hands on the dwarf’s shoulders, looking into the damaged face. “I am coming back. This conversation is not finished.”

The dwarf huffed a humorless laugh. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You will have to believe it.” Zev lifted Varric’s hands, kissing the back of each one. “Because it will happen.”

“Get along with you before you forget how to make the call.” The defeated tone was out of Varric’s voice, though, and Zev would take what he would get. He gave a last squeeze to Varric’s hand and ducked out of the tent.

Zev could see the fighters out of the corner of his eye as he dashed from the tent toward the trees. Fenris was bloodied, favoring one arm, which weakened his attacks significantly. Fergus was dripping with sweat and breathing hard enough to be audible to Zev, but he continued to batter at the dragon as though he was still fresh. The smaller bird of prey that was Morrigan was bleeding freely from a gash in the chest, but attacked ferociously as if she didn’t even feel the wound. Jennie, from a vantage point in the trees, was firing arrows steadily—Zev wondered where she had found so many. And Wulfric had stationed himself in a relatively secure location between two trees. As Zev watched, he fitted a spear to a hole in the piece of wood he carried and then used the wood piece as a lever to fling the spear toward the dragon. It stuck in the hide just below the eye, causing the dragon to bellow with rage. Wulfric roared back at it in challenge before hurling another spear.   
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In his haste, Zev could see no sign of Isabela, and he hoped the pirate was still in play in the combat. The world would lose too much if her light were snuffed out now, he reflected. He felt something as akin to affection as he typically allowed himself for her—they were such similar people, after all, and both … No, even in the privacy of his thoughts, he could not be flippant right now. They were too close to an end for that. It was time for focus.

He swarmed a tree, seeing several snakes slithering away as fast as they could go, and he had to thank Jitzal for his assistance in that area. It would not have done for their mission to be doomed by a poorly timed snake bite. 

At the top of the tree, clinging to the branches, he took a deep breath, last-minute doubts assailing him. Could he make the call correctly? Would it draw the creature? Would the creature kill them all? Letting out the breath in a whoosh, he took another and then let the call fly from his lips, lofting along the treetops deep into the forest.


	39. Eve of Destruction

Varric listened to Flash’s voice rising in the sounds he had so patiently tutored him to make. He could hear the uncertainty in the call, but he didn’t think most people could. Maybe he had spent too much time listening to the elf. Maybe this was part of the heightening of his senses Flash had talked about … but Varric doubted it. He hadn’t yet had time to consider the true impact of losing his sight; with the battle going, it was hardly the time to be moping over his own misfortune. Later, possibly, when Bianca was back in his hands where she belonged. He thought briefly about crawling out to look for her, but in his condition that would only make him an obstacle to the others. How he longed to be back out there, making his lady sing, punishing the woman who had done this to both of them, saving Hawke and everyone. Closing his sightless eyes—relieved to have an excuse to see nothing—he tried to listen for each of the others, to determine what they were all doing.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jennie heard the strange call fly across the forest. She tried to remember where she had heard it before, and why that voice sounded familiar, but the answers wouldn’t come. There was nothing in her head but draw the bow, nock the arrow, aim, and loose; draw the bow, nock the arrow, aim, and loose. Isabela kept gathering fallen arrows and returning them to her—how she had the energy to do so, Jennie couldn’t imagine. The pirate appeared to have sprained her knee; she was limping now, favoring the injured joint. Jennie had a hard time seeing the others with the dragon’s great form in between them and herself. The fact that the dragon was still fighting someone was a relief, certainly, but she wished she could afford to get down from her perch and find out how many. Or see to Varric, whose welfare concerned her in a distant way, as of something that happened long ago. The only way to find out was to continue as she’d begun: draw the bow, nock the arrow, aim, and loose. Only about half of her arrows were hitting the target, and they appeared to be more nuisances than effective blows, but her prowess with daggers wasn’t great enough to be worth switching attack styles. Draw the bow, nock the arrow, aim, and loose.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fenris did remember where he had heard that call before, and why, and nearly allowed the dragon to land a blow to his head with a heavy clawed foot in the distraction of listening for the thudding footsteps of the giant beast. A second call followed the first, higher-pitched in tone and faster, but he could not take the time to wonder what type of creature might follow such a sound. The effort of using his sword effectively with a broken shard of dragon tooth embedded in the muscle of his left upper arm took all his focus. He had considered taking it out, but it kept the wound plugged, and he could not afford to lose the blood that would pour from it if he removed the piece of tooth. The dragon roared at him, and he dove out of the way of the blast of flame, feeling the edge of it singe across his back as he rolled.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Wulfric knew that call well, although he had never been able to master it himself. He felt a brief twinge of envy that Zev had managed it so quickly. He knew the second call, too, and for the first time hope touched the edges of his wearied mind. If Zev could find the Driazi … but then, those simple men had never fought a being like Flemeth before. Wulfric felt torn: he wanted their aid desperately, to save his son and his wife from the plans Flemeth had for them, but he didn’t want to be responsible for the destruction of the tribe that seemed likely to occur if they came to join this battle. He fit another spear into the butt of the atlatl, hurling it with all his strength and skill. The spear stuck in the chest of the dragon, but didn’t have the sharpness or the heft to be more than a nuisance. How desperately Wulfric wished he could wield his sword and his shield properly, to fight this monster in a truly effective manner. But he would have to leave that task to his brother, who was battling valiantly on Wulfric’s behalf, and on the behalf of his son. For the first time in a long while, Wulfric was reminded of the heat of the fire and the screams of the wounded as Highever Castle fell. If only he could have been in time to fight so fiercely for Fergus’s son.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Isabela grasped a vine and leaped out of a tree, resisting an urge to yell as she did so from the sheer exhilaration of swinging through the air, just as she might have done on a ship. She landed boots down on the dragon’s back, torn between trying to hit hard so that the dragon would feel it, so it would hurt, or hit lightly so she could climb as far as she could unnoticed. If she could get to the dragon’s head and shove a dagger in its eye … It was a pity the big thing had been wounded in the neck so many times. The arrows protruding from its flesh got in her way as she tried to climb, and the blood made the neck slippery and treacherous. Her knee twinged a few times—she must have twisted it leaping to the side at some point. But all these were minor. Isabela’s focus was on the climb, one movement, then another, just as if she was swarming up the rigging of a ship. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel herself at sea, the tossing of the head like the bucking of the ship against the waves, the roars of the dragon like the cries of seabirds. A sudden twist of the neck brought her back to reality, breaking her hold and flinging her to the side. Isabela hung on with one arm slung around the dragon’s neck, but she could feel it slipping. When the dragon tossed its head again, she slid off. She rolled herself into a ball to ease the impact of landing, but there was a rock beneath her shoulder as she hit ground. She felt a sharp pain in her arm and could feel wet blood trickling from the wound. It itched as it made a track through the dirt and sweat already on her.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Zev finished the calls and climbed down from the tree. Varric had promised that the second call would bring the fleet creatures to him, but hadn’t known whether they would come directly to the location of the call or to some predetermined place in the camp. More than that, would the creature, once it came, stand still and allow Zev to mount it? He had trained on horses with the Crows, long ago—one of the battery of skills they deemed necessary for all operatives to be versed in—but had never been as skilled as he would have liked. And could he translate those half-forgotten abilities to these strange beasts? He supposed he was about to find out; he saw two of them moving in the trees, coming toward them. The first swiveled its long neck to look at him, cocking its head to the side as though it was studying him, gauging whether he was a worthy rider. Zev gave it his most courtly bow, and when it knelt in front of him he vaulted lightly onto its back, hoping that he would be able to find his way to help. And then there was little thought, as all his focus was bent on merely hanging on as the beast sped through the forest.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morrigan beat her wings into the face of the dragon with all her might, desperation driving her when nothing else could have. It took so much concentration just to hold her shape that it slowed her reflexes; her wing had been singed in several places because she hadn’t dodged the dragon’s flaming breath quickly enough. But she couldn’t alter her form—she needed to be here, in Flemeth’s face, defying her openly, and this was the most powerful combative form she could control, especially in her wearied state. She had allowed Wulfric and various companions to fight her battle for her for far too long. It was her son’s life in the balance today, and she would have to prevail. As with Leliana, only more so, there was no choice other than victory. She heard the call, recognizing the voice as Zevran’s, and her heart leaped. It had never occurred to her to ask for the aid of the Driazi or their creatures; she had always dealt with the tribe as equals, trading favor for favor, and had made it a point of pride never to ask for help … but surely Flemeth threatened even the Driazi. Hope gave renewed energy to her, and she pressed the attack to keep Flemeth occupied until help could arrive.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fergus heard the call, but only at the edge of his consciousness, no more important than the trickle of sweat down his face and the way it blurred his vision as it dripped into his eye. The only important thing was the combat in front of him, the swing of the sword, the thrust of the edge of his shield against the dragon’s firm flesh, the leap away from the heavy, clawed foot that swept too close to him. He had forgotten what this was like, all the years since the Blight when the worst problems he faced involved logistics and finances. In truth, he thought he might miss those problems—there was no question that he had slowed with age and lack of practice, and he was tired of fighting. He wanted to go home, to walk the halls of his family’s rebuilt home, to dance and laugh and make love. But for that to happen, he must win this battle. He threw himself back into the combat with a renewed force.


	40. The Beast

Shortly afterward, although none of the combatants could have said exactly how long it took, the forest floor shook as the thunderous feet of the great monster pounded toward them. Even Flemeth noticed it, and the battle ceased for several seconds as she turned her head, lifting it to listen intently for the approaching enemy. It was the perfect opening, but they were all too tired to take it, instead using those precious seconds to breathe, to wipe sweat off the hilts of their swords and out of their eyes, to look for each other and take stock of who still stood.

Then the dragon gave a squeal of rage and renewed the combat, more angrily than ever. She charged Fergus, catching him in her sharp teeth. His armor saved his shoulder from being completely crushed, but even at that, his shield arm would be useless until time or magic healed it. Isabela leaped for the dragon’s back again, but a blast of flame from the quickly turned mouth caught her as she flew, setting the ends of her hair on fire and throwing off her trajectory so she tumbled out of the air. As she skidded across the ground, the dirt put out the fire, but not before the whipping strands left burn marks on her face and shoulders. The force of the landing knocked the breath out of her, and she tried to get up but fell back as pain stabbed through her leg, the knee buckling.

Wulfric fit another spear into the atlatl. If they could only hold, he thought desperately. He was familiar with the beast’s gait—it was moving at top speed toward them. But would it arrive in time? Flemeth was in a frenzy, madly biting the air where Morrigan hovered. His wife’s wings kept her out of the way of the predatory teeth, but her movement was slowing, her dodges growing sluggish. If Flemeth took Morrigan … Wulfric felt a cold band of fear tighten around his heart. It didn’t bear thinking of, not personally, not globally. It would be a catastrophe for Thedas if Morrigan were taken out of Flemeth’s way. In their long nights deep in the forest, Morrigan had whispered to him many secrets, always looking over her shoulder, never certain even the rocks weren’t listening, and he had an ever-deepening respect for Flemeth and her long, long plans for the world around her. Could they kill her now? They had tried before and failed. Morrigan said no, that pieces of Flemeth lay all over Thedas and could reconstitute her at any time … but to buy Arthur even a few years, to allow the little boy time to live and to develop his powers—that was worth any effort. If it took his own life, Wulfric would save his son’s.

The heavy footsteps were louder now, almost here. Morrigan, high above the ground, kept her attack fierce, her wings buffeting the dragon’s face in an attempt to blind Flemeth to what was coming. Foolish, she admitted to herself, because Flemeth was always prepared … but Flemeth, to the best of Morrigan’s knowledge, had never been to the Tirashan before and knew nothing of the creatures who made the forest their home. If only that could make the difference this time. Morrigan heard the deep roar of the great slavering creature who approached and she rose into the air, turning to face it, knowing that Arthur, safe in Oghren’s care, was seeing what she saw. Let him see the creature who came to fight for him; let him see the threat against his life defeated. Please, she thought, directing her plea toward whatever powers stronger than Flemeth might have influence here, let Flemeth be defeated.

The giant creature burst through the trees with a cracking and splintering of branches, gazing around as if to determine who had called it and to what purpose. Its little arms flapped in front of it; saliva that reeked of decayed flesh dripped from its mouth. The combat ceased for a moment, each of the fighters holding their breath, waiting to see what it would do. Then it sighted the dragon, a creature of nearly its own size there in the midst of the forest where it believed it reigned supreme, and the roar that issued from its mouth was unmistakable in its challenge.

That the dragon was reluctant was obvious to all, but it was equally clear that she had no choice; the time it took to change shape would make her vulnerable, and they were all prepared for it now, watching her closely. To retreat as a dragon into the unfamiliar forest would leave Flemeth vulnerable to the great creature that loomed before her. With a squawk of triumph, Morrigan swooped in and pecked Flemeth sharply in the back of the dragon’s long neck. For her moment of impulsiveness, she was rewarded with a savagely quick twist of the dragon’s head and a sharp tooth that raked along her wing. Morrigan tumbled to the ground, lying there half-stunned as Wulfric scrambled toward her fallen form, screaming her name.

Flemeth the dragon had no further chance at retaliation, because the great creature was upon her and she must fight with tooth and tail and claw and blast of flaming breath. The monster had size over her, and its teeth were sharp, its tail as ponderous and heavy, but its arms were no match for her claws, and soon it was dancing away out of reach of them, howling in pain from the long scrapes across its chest.

But while Flemeth was holding her own against the monster, she couldn’t fight all the other fronts at the same time. Fenris and Fergus had renewed their attacks, and Jennie’s arrows and the spears from Wulfric’s atlatl flew through the air. Flemeth was losing blood quickly. And the giant creature, used to lording it over the forest, was enraged that this rival had dared to attack it—the sounds of its anger shook the forest, and its teeth flashed as it battered its body against the dragon with surprising agility.

Varric, straining his ears for every sound, was the first to hear the soft patter of two of the small, swift creatures approaching, and a smile broke over his face. That could only mean Flash had made it to the Driazi camp and back, and had brought Sunshine with him. For all that she was more like midnight than daylight now, she would stand with them against Flemeth; he knew her too well to think otherwise.

Zev dismounted as soon as the beast came to a stop, taking in the battle with one sharp glance. He pointed Bethany in Isabela’s direction first, thinking the mage would be best used bringing the fighters back to full strength. Then, as her healing light began to shine over the pirate’s head, paler in hue than Anders’s, more muted than Wynne’s, he remembered that Bethany was not primarily a healer, and he shouted to her to turn her attentions toward the dragon. Let magic fight magic, he thought. Yes. He resisted the urge to turn toward the tent to check on Varric and instead threw himself into the fray, his poisoned daggers scoring the dragon’s flanks.

Slowly but surely, the tide of battle began to turn. The dragon gave ground under the refreshed attacks, its own movements slowing as its energy ebbed with the blood that seeped from its numerous wounds. Its head bowed lower and lower, until at last it appeared to be all but defeated. The giant beast, giving a roar of triumph, attacked, its teeth gleaming with saliva as it swooped in to take the final bite that would destroy the creature that opposed it once and for all. As its jaws closed, a flash of light burst between them and the dragon disappeared, leaving a very small human shape caught between the creature’s teeth. Startled, it dropped its prize, leaving Flemeth lying in the dirt at its feet while it sniffed around, looking for the vanished dragon.

Morrigan, returned to her human form, dragged herself to her feet, moving slowly and painfully toward Flemeth’s fallen body. With her good arm, Morrigan drew a twisted black dagger from her clothing and knelt over her mother.

Flemeth’s eyes were clear, despite her broken body and the blood that stained her lips. “This is not the end. I will be back for him,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I will be waiting.” Morrigan plunged the dagger into Flemeth’s heart, twisting it until she was certain life could not be restored to the body as it lay.

She rose to her feet, taking stock of her companions, most of whom had collapsed onto the ground where they were standing once the dragon had vanished. They lay or sat, panting and sweaty and covered in dirt and blood, and Morrigan found unaccustomed words rising to her lips. “Thank you. Thank you all.”


	41. I'll Stand By You

Despite the long familiarity of everyone in the company with combat, their return to activity once Flemeth had been vanquished was slow. The wounds, both small and large, were many, and Bethany and Morrigan were healers of limited ability. Wulfric had taken it upon himself to go looking for Oghren and Arthur, and Anders, immediately, assuming they couldn't have gone far, and Zev, as the freshest of them, chose to go along to help with the tracking.

"Although, given our dwarven friend's proclivities, all one truly needs is an adequate sense of smell," he said, flashing a grin around at the assembled company. Tired chuckles were his best response, but better than no laughter at all. Lightening the mood would be a necessity, Zev could see. Once there had been healing, and bathing, and reuniting the child with his parents. Behind him, people were beginning to move, getting up off the ground with groans as aching muscles stretched and wounds stung.

Ahead, there was bracken bent and folded and broken by the progress of the large, clunky dwarf. Teaching Oghren anything about moving subtly had always been a lost cause. Something seemed off to Zev, though. Oghren should have been looking for a hiding place, but instead he had kept moving forward. And surprisingly fast, too. He said as much to Wulfric, who shrugged with a weary grin. "With Oghren, who can tell?" He didn't seem concerned. Zev speculated that perhaps something in Arthur's abilities led Wulfric to a greater level of confidence. Or perhaps having defeated Flemeth, the great threat to his son's life and soul, made Wulfric uncharacteristically complacent about other threats.

Zev notched his own wariness up a bit, however. The only thing he'd ever known Oghren to run for was a really fine ale, and there was none of that to be had within several days' ride of where they were.

Several Driazi were crouching in a clearing up ahead; one of them looked up as Zev and Wulfric approached. To Zev's eyes, his face looked very solemn, but then, the Driazi appeared to be a solemn race overall, and with their elongated wide faces and the thick gleaming hide that covered them, it was difficult to read their expressions as closely as Zev would have liked.

Wulfric held up a hand in greeting. "Have you seen Arthur?" he asked.

Zev watched the Driazi closely. They shook their heads, but there was something more there … "Are you certain?" he asked. "Did you see something else that you connected with Arthur?"  
One of the men, with skin of a startlingly vivid shade of orange, stood, unfolding to a tremendous height. He spoke in their sibilant tongue. Zev tried to focus on his face to glean whatever extra information he could, since he was not familiar enough with the language to follow this man's rapid speech. From what he could tell, they had seen something with feathers. Feathers at the shoulder? They had seen Anders, then. Following in Oghren's path. He mentioned as much to Wulfric, who nodded.

"Good. If Anders is with them, they should be safe from anything."

Possibly. But Zev was not so certain as his old friend was. The Anders he had journeyed to the Tirashan with was not the same as the Anders he had met on his visits to Vigil's Keep in Ferelden so long ago. He would not have put his life in this new Anders's hands, much less that of a vulnerable and significant child. Of course, he reminded himself, Oghren knew Anders wasn't quite himself, also. He would know to be careful. But careful of what? Zev couldn't put a name to the sense of foreboding he felt; he just knew that his instincts screamed for caution.

Wulfric had gone on past the Driazi, farther into the forest. Zev gave the tribesmen a nod of thanks and hurried after his old friend. The aftermath of battle had dulled Wulfric's senses, exhaustion and relief deadening his instincts. Zev felt neither of those emotions to the extent Wulfric did, and he resolved to be sharper than ever to compensate for his old friend's debility.

The trail of broken branches and trampled vegetation continued farther into the jungle, leaving Zev to wish very much that he was more familiar with the Tirashan and its geography. A glance at Wulfric said that the other man at least knew where they were, even if he wasn't able to follow each of Oghren's steps the way Zev could. As he often did, Zev wondered what it would be like to be skilled in swordsmanship and lack the ability to slip into shadows and lay traps for the unsuspecting. It sounded dull to him, and he blessed his fate that he had been granted the skills he had. And more—thinking of Varric and the agonies of adjustment that lay ahead of the dwarf, Zev couldn't help feeling grateful that none of his battles thus far had caused any permanent damage that would dim the use of his skills … or his enjoyment of them. He blinked away the image of the dwarf's acid-scarred face; he couldn't afford the distraction. Not right now. Later, once they had found Oghren and the child and returned to the camp, then he could indulge himself in sorrow for the dwarf's lost sight and relief that the damage had been no worse than it was.

"Zev."

Wulfric's hoarse voice stopped him in his tracks, and he realized that he had allowed himself to be distracted despite all his best attempts to avoid it. "What is it?"  
He followed Wulfric's pointing finger to a motionless figure in familiarly filthy armor lying in the long grass. The lack of snores, gas, or other noxious emissions immediately gave Zev cause for concern as he rushed over to Oghren's side, Wulfric close behind him. Zev knelt next to the dwarf, searching for a pulse in the thick neck under the bristly red bush of his beard.

"Well?" Wulfric asked impatiently. Zev held up a finger for silence, concentrating on trying to feel the dwarf's pulse through the thick, hard skin.

Hard? Ah. "It appears to be the remnants of a petrification spell. His body is … thawing, for lack of a better term."

"Who could have done this to him?"

"Flemeth is dead. Morrigan and Bethany were with us. Need I say more?"

"Anders? Why would Anders—Arthur! He must have taken Arthur." Wulfric's voice broke on the last word, and the powerful warrior fell to his hands and knees, his tears falling into the tall grass. After the injury and the battle and the narrow defeat of Flemeth, this latest loss was too much. Zev rested a hand on the center of Wulfric's back in silent support; no words of his were adequate to the moment. He swiftly tried to think through Anders's next course of action. The mage was alone in an unexplored forest, far from any familiar locales. Alone, but for a spirit of Justice, Zev reminded himself. Who could tell what corruption that altered spirit had been whispering into the mage's ears?

"My friend, we must go back. We need the others," he said gently.

"Go back?" Wulfric practically shouted the words, looking up at Zev incredulously. "And lose all the time it would take to backtrack? Take the chance of losing their tracks altogether?"

"Do you see any tracks?"

Wulfric's jaw set stubbornly as he looked around them. It was clear to Zev that his friend did not wish to admit the truth.

"Nor do I," he said. "Hawke may be able to see things I cannot—she is more familiar with Anders ... in his current guise." He wished for Varric, in truth, and thought in anguish of the dwarf's permanently darkened eyes. "We have no choice," he said at last. Wulfric didn't respond, and he repeated the words, more forcefully.

"My son, Zev," Wulfric whispered.

He had never seen his friend give way in such a manner, and it disturbed him. This was why the Crows so discouraged relationships and the formation of bonds that mimicked familial ties in any way. It was too late for Zev to go back to that way of life, however—his life was bound up with that of this man next to him, and Wulfric's pain was his pain.

"We will find him, my friend. I promise you that."


	42. Can't You See

Jennie couldn’t remember being so tired, not in a long time. Really, not since Ostagar had a battle so sapped her energy and made her long so for the relief of the Fade. She pitched in to help clean up the camp, bind wounds, and leave the area around Flemeth’s small and shrunken body clear for Morrigan, who knelt over her mother without moving. Was she gloating over her victory, mourning her lost mother? It was impossible to tell, and until Morrigan gave any indication of what her wishes or needs might be, Jennie couldn’t summon the energy to care.

Likewise, she avoided Fergus, and Varric, as well. As long as she could hold this bubble of work and weariness around her, with no need to think about what had been or what would be, nothing would disturb the sudden calm and quiet that had settled over the forest. It seemed the others mostly felt the same way—she could see that Fenris and Isabela had placed themselves on the opposite sides of the camp, Fergus made no move toward her, and Varric remained in his tent while Bianca still lay near the fire.

When the swift, long-necked steed appeared in camp, Jennie was shamefully unaware of it until it was practically under her nose. She leaped aside to avoid being run into, and was ready to yell at Zev for being so careless—conveniently forgetting that she had only been surprised because she had let her attention lapse—when he leaped to the ground in front of her and she caught sight of his face. One look at that set, stony countenance and a sinking sensation in her gut told her more than she wanted to know.

“Arthur?” she asked quietly, not wanting her voice to carry to where Morrigan still knelt. The witch hadn’t even looked up when Zev arrived in camp, which led Jennie to wonder if Morrigan was in the midst of casting some sort of spell over her mother’s dead body.

Zev nodded. “And Anders.”

Jennie didn’t even need to ask whether Anders was injured or injuring. The sinking sensation in her stomach told her what must be. “Did he— Is Oghren all right?”

“He will be, once the petrification wears off completely.” Zev gave a perfunctory half-smile. “Our dwarven friend would, naturally, have made a joke regarding hardness at this point.”

“I’ll assume it,” Jennie said dryly. “What do we do?”

“Someone must tell her.” Zev gestured at Morrigan’s bowed head.

“She hasn’t moved from that spot in a long while … I don’t know if it’s safe to interrupt her.” Both of them were watching Morrigan now, and the others were beginning to draw around.

Decisively, Zev strode toward the witch. “There is no time to be lost.”

Morrigan looked up as he approached, a sharp remark hovering almost visibly on her lips, but it died before she could speak. Her face, already pale, turned as white as flour, and she swayed as she stood up. “Where is he?”

“Anders has him.”

Jennie expected an audible gasp, some expression of shock or surprise from her companions, now gathered closely around, but there was none. Varric looked saddened, Fergus angry, Isabela resigned, Fenris bitter. She hoped he wouldn’t say any long, complicated form of “I told you so.”

“I will kill him.” Morrigan’s statement was toneless; a simple fact, with no emotion underlying it. She looked over her shoulder at the body of Flemeth, and Jennie wondered for a moment if Morrigan wished her mother back, if only for long enough to take care of Anders. Then again, the question was less whether Morrigan was powerful enough to kill Anders, even given his unworldly passenger—she undoubtedly was, if killing was called for—but what Anders wanted, or had already done, with Arthur. And that Morrigan could only guess.

“You will have to find him first. Fortunately, the abomination is as poorly skilled at finding his way as he is at controlling himself,” Fenris said. There was a noticeable sneer on his face and in his voice.

Isabela grinned lazily at him. “You talk like you know how to track.”

“I have some skill at it, yes. I learned it with the Fo—in my past.”

Jennie remembered the tale he had told her long months ago about his escape from Danarius. This was the closest she had ever heard him come to mentioning that time in public, and she was proud of him for coming so far.

“You’re on, then. You find him first, you get the reward of your choice. I find him … I get the reward of my choice.” One eyelid dropped and rose in a slow, completely unsubtle wink.

To Jennie’s great surprise, Fenris did not argue with the terms. Instead, he blushed. “I … perhaps I may have overstated my skills.”

“Oh, I do hope you have.” 

“Must the two of you make sport of this?” Morrigan snapped. “You speak as if a child’s safety did not hang in the balance of this endeavor.”

Isabela’s grin vanished. “This ‘endeavor’, as you call it, involves tracking an extremely unbalanced and unpredictable mage who is well on his way to becoming an abomination. Not to mention that we have all been friends with and have cared for this mage for a number of years now. None of us are blind to the complications, the difficulties, or the importance of what we’re about to do. But screeching and getting hysterical about it are not going to improve the situation.”

“You … may have a point. This was the way Wulfric behaved during the Blight, as well, but that was a long time ago, and I may have—forgotten.” Morrigan pushed each word out unwillingly, but out they came, which was a start.

“Rivaini’s right.” Varric’s gravelly voice came from next to Jennie, and she felt his hand on her hip briefly, as if he was assuring himself of where he was. “Blondie’s not himself, if he ever was, and we have to be careful.”

“We?” Zev asked sharply. “You cannot—“

Varric’s tone brooked no argument. “I can, and I will.” 

Jennie nodded her agreement. “Varric may be the only person who can still reach Anders in whatever state Justice has him in.”

The elf frowned, but he knew better than to continue. Varric was determined, and Jennie had yet to meet a person who could talk Varric out of anything.

“I will carry the dwarf,” Morrigan announced. “We fly immediately.”

“How will he retain his hold?” Zev asked.

Morrigan looked from the elf to the dwarf and back again. “That is his difficulty. Perhaps you need to let him determine how he will surmount it.” Without another word, she commenced her transformation into the giant bird of prey. 

Jennie put a hand casually on Varric’s shoulder and walked with him to the bird. “We’ll meet you there. Zev knows the way back.” She glanced at him to confirm the truth of the statement, and he nodded.

“Hawke.” Varric turned his face her direction reproachfully as she helped him climb on.

“Lighten up, Varric. Look at it this way—you’ve got a big excuse for women to put their hands all over you now.”

“And muss my coat?” He grinned as he took his seat on the bird’s back. Morrigan took off without preamble, and Zev watched anxiously until bird and rider had disappeared into the clouds.

“Zev. The call?”

“Pardon?” He turned to Jennie in surprise, as though he had forgotten she was there.

“Call those animals so we can meet them where Wulfric and Oghren are.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“He’s going to be fine, you know,” Jennie said, walking with the elf to the edge of the clearing.

“How can you say so?”

“Because I know him. He’ll go home to Kirkwall, he’ll pay someone a little money to transcribe his stories for him … business as usual.”

“You think so?” There was a hard edge to the elf’s voice, and he stopped short in the middle of the camp. “Then how do you explain that?” He gestured toward Bianca, her stock scorched, lying abandoned near the fire. “I do not claim to know him as well as you do, but I know him well enough to be certain that he would not allow that if he were in his right mind.”

Jennie had no response to that, and Zev didn’t wait for one. He called the beasts without another word. As the animals assembled and everyone mounted up, Jennie stood lost in thought, her eyes tracing the path the giant bird had taken across the sky. At the last minute, she scrambled toward the fire and retrieved Bianca, slinging the crossbow over her shoulder. Only then did she climb aboard the beast and let it bear her through the forest.


	43. Come Together

Morrigan’s wings bore her, with her dwarven passenger, swiftly to the clearing where Wulfric still knelt next to Oghren’s slowly de-petrifying body. No sooner had she touched ground and felt Varric’s weight slide from her back than she had resumed her human form and was running across the grass to Wulfric. She would never forget the look on his tear-stained face as he turned to look up at her.

“I’m sorry, Morrigan. I trusted him—he was my friend! I don’t know why he would do this.” Wulfric’s voice was cracked and broken, and Morrigan had to strain to understand his words, although his meaning was perfectly clear.

She knelt next to him, putting her arms around his broad shoulders, speechless. All the way here, she had berated him in her head for his trusting nature, for the foolish confidence he reposed in those he considered friends, had planned to express her displeasure in no uncertain terms as soon as she reached him … but it was evident to her that he had scolded himself to far greater purpose than she could. No words of hers could be more scathing than the ones he had used on himself. And if she was to return him to his usual strength and confidence, to bolster their relationship in the face of this newest threat, to rebuild his usefulness in this crisis, she would have to lay aside the blame she had placed on him and practice something entirely foreign to her nature—forgiveness.

“You … could not have known what he has become capable of,” she said stiffly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing in any of the stories you have told would have led me to believe he could conceive of this plan, much less accomplish it.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” Oghren muttered thickly. “Who’da thought Sparklefingers’d’ve attacked me?”

Appearing oblivious to the dwarf’s comment, Wulfric tentatively laid a hand over Morrigan’s as it rested on his shoulder, the fog of grief beginning to clear from his eyes.

“Blondie’s not who he used to be. He’s been changing for a long time. I don’t know if it was the Wardens or Justice or the Templars … or all three at once, but it was more than he could take and stay sane.” Varric moved slowly through the grass, pausing after each step. His head lifted and turned as though he was listening for cues to tell him where it was safe to move. 

Wulfric stood up and started to reach out toward the dwarf to guide him closer, but Morrigan’s hand tightened on his shoulder and she shook her head. “He does not need your assistance, nor would he thank you for it.”

A dark smile passed swiftly across the dwarf’s face. She had spoken softly, but it was plain he had heard every word. “Did you know,” he said conversationally, moving one foot slowly forward, “that when one sense is dulled, the others sharpen? I’ve heard that before. Always thought it was so much bullshit. But apparently there’s something in it after all. The others are about a mile away,” he added, nodding his head in the appropriate direction. 

“I am familiar with the phenomenon—the Chasind used to practice ways to sharpen their senses—but I would not have expected you to feel its effects so soon,” Morrigan said.

“You forget my chosen role. I am an observer; I have a lot of ways to pick up information.” A flash of pain and grief crossed Varric’s scarred features, and he turned away, saying nothing more.

Oghren groaned and sat up, his armor creaking. “Damn mages.” He spat something into the grass. “He took the kidlet from me, hit me with his stone thing, and I think he ran off. Can’t be sure—hard to see through stone.” He looked up, and Morrigan could see flakes of shale still stuck in his red beard. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Wulfric assured their old friend. “None of us saw this coming.” He looked at Varric, frowning. “Did we?”

“No. I knew Blondie was slipping, but I didn’t see—“ He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Gonna have to work on my vocabulary.”

The swift drumming of footsteps was coming closer now, which gave the other three an excuse not to respond to Varric’s bitter remark. Zev’s first glance, as he pulled up, was for the dwarf, as was Jennie’s. She hesitated, climbing down off the animal she had ridden. Her hand lifted toward Bianca, strapped snugly to her back, then dropped again. Not now—perhaps later. 

“Any sign of him?” Isabela asked briskly, all business for the moment.

Morrigan shook her head. “I have not looked thoroughly.”

“Come with me, then.” At Morrigan’s wary glance, Isabela clucked her tongue impatiently. “You’re more familiar with the vegetation around here than I am; you’ll be able to tell if something’s out of place that I might not see at first glance.”

“You make a decent point,” Morrigan conceded. She gave Wulfric’s shoulder a last squeeze before joining the pirate as they moved carefully toward the perimeter of the clearing.

“Isabela!” Fenris’s voice was startling in the quiet that had fallen over them all.

She turned to look at him.

“The abomination is not stupid, whatever his other flaws. He would not have made it easy.”

Isabela waited, eyebrows raised.

“There may be traps,” Fenris continued. His voice hoarsened. “You should be … careful.”

A rare, true smile lit her face. “You bet.”

His mouth quirked slightly in return before she turned back to follow Morrigan. Fenris himself reached out a hand to help Oghren up. “Show me where he was standing when he cast this spell.”

“Aye.” The dwarf’s shoulders were slumped, and he seemed a faint shadow of his former bluff self as he moved, his walk rather stiff.

Fergus looked lost for a moment, his arms at his sides. He had no skill in tracking; had never had any. His eyes fell on his brother; Wulfric was staring down at his hands, which were trembling violently. Fergus took two long steps and pulled his brother into his arms. “We will find him, I swear it to you.”

Wulfric shook his head against his brother’s shoulder. “I should have kept him with me. I should never have trusted Anders, or anyone, to do the duty that was mine.”

“You’re not the first father to feel that way,” Fergus said, thinking of all the times he had wept miserably over the thought of Oren’s last moments. He had run over his understanding of the events at Highever Castle that night so many times, imagining the ways in which he could have—and would have—intervened to save his child, his wife, his parents, the faithful retainers of their household who had given so much in their service. How he had resented Wulfric, not just for having been there, for having failed to do the things Fergus was so sure he could have accomplished in his brother’s place, but for being a reminder of the speciousness of all Fergus’s fevered if onlys. “You need to pull yourself together. Your son will need you now.”

A tremor shook Wulfric’s body, and he lifted his head slightly to speak, very quietly, directly into Fergus’s ear. “What if it’s already too late? What if—“ He didn’t finish, and didn’t need to. Too many possibilities to imagine hung at the end of his sentence.

Fergus fiercely tightened his hold. “You can’t think that way. You mustn’t. Until—until all hope is lost, you must cling to the idea that he’s waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me,” Wulfric repeated, bitterly. “I couldn’t find him if I tried.”

“You can hunt.”

“Animals. Not mages who are cunning and desperate to stay hidden.”

Fergus held his brother away from him, looking into Wulfric’s face. “That,” he said firmly, “is why you have your friends here. They are, right now, looking for all the signs you don’t think you could find, filling in the gaps of your skill set. But you need to be ready to act as soon as one of them finds something. You are Arthur’s father; you were Anders’s friend once, long before this Justice thing happened. If anyone can reach him, it’s you.”

“Or Oghren.”

“Maybe, but let’s remember that Oghren ended up a statue, if temporarily.”

“What makes you think I would fare any better? This isn’t the Anders I knew.”

Putting his hands on Wulfric’s shoulders, Fergus turned his brother around so that he faced the rest of the clearing. “What makes me think you would fare better? They do. These people are here for you, my brother, because you drew them, and all of Ferelden, together during the Blight. You are that man still; don’t doubt yourself. Not now.”

Fergus looked up at this tall, half-naked man in furs standing before him and tried to see the pouty-lipped toddler stumbling after him; the narrow-shouldered youth climbing the tallest trees to show off; the gangly young man who had tried so hard to best his big brother in every way he could. They had come such a long way from those happy days in Highever, grown so far apart without their home and their parents to anchor them together. Fergus would always love Wulfric and cherish him for where he came from, what he had done, and who he was … but it was time to let his little brother go to fight his own battles. Long past time.

He gave Wulfric a little push. “Go get your son back.”

Wulfric swallowed visibly, then nodded and began to move toward Morrigan and Isabela. From off to Fergus’s right, he heard Jennie’s voice. “You’re not going to help him?”

Fergus hadn’t known she was standing there. He turned to look at her. “He needs to do this on his own. If he lets someone else do this for him, he’ll always feel like less than he is. The others can help, but he can’t be allowed to hang back kicking himself over things he has and hasn’t done … and his big brother can’t ride to the rescue any longer.” 

Jennie frowned thoughtfully. “I can understand that. So what will you do now, if you’ve given up the task of playing big brother?”

She had spoken lightly, but Fergus’s response to her question wasn’t light. He felt a tightness in his chest, a longing. In that moment, all doubts were laid aside and he knew what he wanted with a clarity he hadn’t felt in some time. “I thought … I might try husband again.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parting, and all else was forgotten as he moved closer yet, ready to take her in his arms and kiss her until she said yes to his unspoken question. But before he could touch her, a cry went up from Isabela on the other side of the clearing.

“This isn’t the time,” Jennie said breathlessly.

“No. But the time is coming.”

Hurrying past him to join the others, she gave him a look over her shoulder, the wide-eyed look of a fleeing deer, leaving Fergus wondering exactly what her answer would be when he found the right moment to ask his question properly.


	44. Darkening of the Light

Isabela beckoned to the others. “Boot print. Right there in the leaves.”

Bending to look over her shoulder, Fenris said, “I can see nothing.”

“It’s right there, see?” She pointed out the faint outline left behind by the mage as he passed. Looking up at him, she winked. “I guess that puts me on top, doesn’t it?”

She had to give him credit, he didn’t even pretend to miss the entendre. He even allowed those green eyes of his to warm a bit as he replied, “That remains to be seen. There is a feather caught in that twig ahead.”

Isabela’s head whipped around to look in the direction he indicated. “You’re making that up.”

“No, look more closely. A very small brown feather.”

“You are lying through your teeth.” She turned back to him, grinning. “That’s very sexy.”

Fenris cleared his throat, stepping back from her. His face, so open a moment ago, closed against her. Isabela regretted the last word—it had been too far, it seemed. Still … the playful side of him glimpsed so briefly had her wanting to conclude this mess so she could take him back to her tent and see how far those tattoos really went.

“What is it?” Wulfric’s voice was strained with worry as he approached, walking carefully lest he disturb some sign.

Isabela sobered, pointing out the boot print.

Wulfric looked off into the distance, as if he thought if only he stared hard enough, he could see. “What does he want with my son?”

“Power.” Fenris’s voice was closed off and hard.

Morrigan responded, “The child’s power is such that the mage will have no idea how to use.”

“He has help from the spirit inside him,” Jennie said. Everyone was crowded around the one boot print—everyone but Zev and Varric, who were off to the left. “Justice probably has a lot of ideas about how to use Arthur’s power.”

“He may call himself Justice, but it is vengeance and punishment that he spouts.” Morrigan frowned in disapproval.

“I don’t care what his name is, I don’t want his possessed hands on my son!” 

“Of course you don’t. Do you think that I do?” Morrigan reached for Wulfric’s hand in apology for her sharp tone. “We must determine what we are dealing with, and possibly determine the purpose of the abduction, if we are to find them in time.”

“Hawke,” Varric called quietly.

She left the rest of the group, moving toward the dwarf. “What is it?”

“Flash found something. Might want to keep it under your hat.”

Jennie leaned over to see the small drops of blood Zev was pointing at. “Injury, you think, or … magic?”

“It’s not like Blondie. Either one. Then again, none of this is.” Varric turned his scarred face up to Jennie. “You think tomorrow morning I could wake up in the Hanged Man and have this whole thing be one big nightmare?”

“I think you’re not the only one who wishes that could happen,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Zev, is there any more of that?”

He flicked a sideways glance at her, moving gently through the grass in his search. “Not that I see so far. But where there is one drop …” He let the words trail off, beginning his search again. 

“So which is the real trail?” Jennie asked. “Isabela’s boot print, or … this?”

“I know which one I’m more likely to follow,” Varric said.

Zev sat back on his haunches, looking from the dwarf to Jennie. “As do I. Perhaps there is our answer?”

“That may be the answer, but what if it’s not the question?” Varric asked. “The question is, does Blondie think the way we do? Even considering his passenger, I have a hard time seeing him planting a blood drop this small and expecting either of you to find it. He doesn’t know you that well, and Rivaini’s tracking isn’t the skill she usually shows off. The boot print being the more obvious sign says to me that’s the one that’s fake.”

Jennie and Zev looked at each other thoughtfully. “He’s got a point,” Jennie said.

“I trust in our friend’s instincts,” Zev agreed. “However …”

“Don’t sugar-coat it, Flash. Out with it.”

“It does not feel right to me, this drop of blood. How are we to know it didn’t come from an animal?”

“You don’t have special assassin ways to tell human blood from other kinds?” Varric asked, the corner of his mouth turning up sardonically.

“Sadly, no.” Zev’s answering smile was tinged with sadness, knowing the dwarf couldn’t see it.

“Then let’s follow both,” Jennie decided. “There’s enough of us, we can go both ways, and Morrigan can fly between us to keep track of both groups.”

Zev nodded. “That seems the wisest course. How shall we divide ourselves?”

“As we are,” she said. “You and Varric and I will follow the blood; Oghren and Wulfric and Fenris and Isabela the boot tracks.”

“Seems like you’re forgetting someone, Hawke,” Varric said in his familiar dry tone. Jennie blushed, and the dwarf chuckled. “Cousland!”

Fergus joined them quickly. “What is it? Have you found something?”

Quickly Varric explained the situation. “You’re with us. Go tell the others, and let’s get a move on.”

Jennie thought Morrigan or Wulfric would object to the reasoning that had been used, but they seemed to understand and agree, and very soon both groups were moving deeper into the forest … and farther from each other, she thought uneasily, wondering if this had been Anders’s true plan. Dividing the group gave him a much better chance, although it was still four to one, and a very formidable four no matter which group found him first. She only wished she knew what he had up his sleeve. It seemed so unlike him to run off with a child. Did Justice have a plan for Arthur’s Old God soul? How could any such plan be put in place here in the midst of an unknown forest?

“No time for divining the spirit’s purpose, Hawke. Let’s go ask the ghost itself.”

“Lead on, Varric,” she said, just as she would have in the old days, and then winced. 

There was little humor in the chuckle the dwarf gave in response. “I keep doing that, too. I suppose we’ll get used to it in time.”

Both groups began moving through the woods, single file. Jennie kept her hands on Varric’s shoulders, ostensibly to help guide him, but really, she felt, to anchor herself back in who she had been—who they all had been—when this quest started. Was she still Jennie Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall? She couldn’t say she felt like champion of much here in the wilderness.

Zev led the way; Fergus followed but didn’t speak. High above them Morrigan swooped through the air anxiously. The heavy tree cover made it hard for her to see, so occasionally she would light in the top of a tree, setting it to swaying precariously.

At last, so far into the forest that even the sun could barely make it through the heavy leaf-cover above them, Zev stopped. His eyes gleamed in the darkness. 

Jennie could feel Varric nod against her. “Yeah, he’s there,” the dwarf whispered. “Poor bastard.”

“What do we do?”

Anders’s voice answered her, sounding exhausted. “You come out, Hawke. You and whoever’s with you. Varric?” 

“I’m here, Blondie.”

“You first.”

“I’m coming with him, Anders. You’ll—you’ll see why in a moment.”

“Fine. Anyone else gets a fireball in the face.”

Jennie hoped Zev and Fergus would have the good sense to believe Anders’s threat and stay put. She held on to Varric’s shoulder as they pushed through a heavy veil of vines.

Bright light struck her, and she stood blinking, her eyes watering with it. Not having had to deal with that unexpected difficulty, Varric kept walking forward, measuring each step before he took it. Jennie blinked hard, her hand up to shield her eyes. For a minute she thought Anders had made good on his threat and hit her with a fireball, but then, as her eyes adjusted, she could see where the light was coming from: the child Arthur was emitting it. He was held securely in a net made of vines, dangling far above their heads. For a moment, Jennie’s heart leapt with hope—if he was that far up, maybe Morrigan could get to him if they kept Anders distracted. But a closer look told her that wasn’t going to work. Arthur was bound securely hand and food, and a vine was wrapped around his neck, tying him to the rest of the net. If Morrigan tried to move him, he would be strangled.

“Anders …” she breathed. “Why would you do that?”

“Do you see?” he asked her, stepping into the light. He looked drawn and pale, but exalted at the same time. 

“No,” Varric said flatly. “I don’t. Explain it to me, will you, Blondie?”

Anders drew in a shocked breath, leaning down to look into Varric’s face.

“Bird of prey. Acid. Not pretty, is it?” The defensiveness in the dwarf’s voice cut Jennie to the heart. She hated to hear him sounding so vulnerable and yet completely denying any such emotion.

The last vestiges of the healer he had once been flickered in Anders’s eyes as he peered at the wounds. “There’s nothing I can do, Varric,” he said, sounding genuinely heartbroken.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Varric sounded almost forgiving, more concerned about Anders’s emotions than his own. Typical, Jennie thought, wishing she could give the dwarf the comfort he was so sure he couldn’t accept.

“Then what? I suppose you came for the boy.” Anders stood up, looking at Jennie.

“You couldn’t have thought you could just steal him away and not have someone come after him.”

“No, but I didn’t think it would be you.”

“The others are searching, too. We just found you first. And lucky for you. If Wulfric or Morrigan saw that …” She gestured at the trussed-up child.

“He would die before they could reach him. I’m not a fool.”

Jennie found that debatable, but resisted the urge to make a comment. It seemed unwise, given Anders’s mastery of the current situation. She opted, instead, to cut through the banter and the complaints and the explanations. “Anders, tell me what we can do to give this boy back to his parents.”

It was the echoing, ponderous voice of Justice that answered her. “He is no child. He is the embodiment of Urthemiel, god of beauty. His voice will resound across the world and rise above the edifices built to honor Andraste’s voice before it. There will be freedom; there will be justice; there will be vengeance for all those who have been treated unfairly.”

It was as though Jennie could see the future that would be brought forth. Its dazzling beauty brought tears to her eyes, and her determination wavered. But then Zev emerged from the tangle of jungle vegetation behind her. “All of them? Or just the mages? Will the elves be given back their homelands and offered the opportunity to enslave generations worth of humans? Will the dwarves be able to triumph over the darkspawn and take back their lost thaigs? Tell us, Justice, who will receive their vengeance, and how will they take it without shedding the blood of the innocent?”

His weary voice broke the spell, and Jennie blinked again against the light of Urthemiel streaming down from the viny cage high above them. 

Justice raised his hands. “You do not understand my purpose. But you will.” He pointed at Zev.

“No, Blondie!” Varric cried out, and he threw himself in front of the elf just as a beam of energy left Justice’s hands.


	45. Obsession

The squawk from Morrigan, high overhead, and a startled grunt from Fenris as the elf turned his head sharply to the right came at the same time. Wulfric and Isabela froze in place, only to stumble and nearly fall on their faces as Oghren, less observant, thumped into them from behind.

Above them Morrigan dove out of sight, still uttering loud, distressed cries. 

“This way,” Fenris said urgently, paying no attention to the other three as they disentangled themselves from each other. “You must hurry,” he added, beginning to weave his way through the trees without stopping to see if they were behind him.

“Did you hear anything?” Wulfric asked Isabela as they hurried after him.

“No, but if he did, that’s good enough for me.”

The forest grew more dense and dark enough that Wulfric had a hard time seeing the others. He was grateful for Fenris’s strange lyrium marking and Isabela’s gold jewelry, both of which caught and reflected what little light there was. Ahead of them he could begin to distinguish sounds, voices, raised in either anger or pain. It was hard to tell exactly which. He wanted to call Fenris back, to find out what the elf could hear, to prepare himself for whatever lay in front of him. His legs felt leaden as dread settled heavily on his shoulders. He wanted to get to the other side of the dark curtain of foliage … but he didn’t want to, either. Because whatever was over there was his fault. His friend had betrayed them, his son’s grandmother had attacked them—his inability to protect his family had brought all these good people here and strained them to the very edge of their endurance and abilities. 

Wulfric was used to the people around him honing their abilities, advancing their skills, growing better and sharper as the time went on. This reversal, brought on by the unfamiliarity of the forest and its environs and the terrible distance they all were from anything they knew, weighed on him. He could feel their weariness and increasing sense of defeat as if it were his own, and he wondered how many of them secretly wished that it was over, that whatever would happen to the child would go ahead and happen so they could all mourn and move on. He wouldn’t blame them for feeling that way; in his secret heart, he thought maybe he did, too.

And then Fenris pushed through the brush, followed by Isabela. There was silence after they disappeared, abrupt and startling, and Wulfric couldn’t wait any longer. He burst through the barrier and then, as his friends had before him, stopped still, transfixed by the sight before him.

Anders held Arthur’s small form up in front of him. The eyes and mouth of the mage, his very skin, glowed with a blue light, making him look like an entirely different person from the friend Wulfric remembered from Amaranthine. The eyes and mouth of the boy, as well as his skin, emitted a similar light, but it was pure and white and possibly the most beautiful thing Wulfric had ever seen.

It was difficult to tear his gaze away from the beauty of the child and the terribleness of the man to take stock of the others. If it hadn’t been for the habits he’d picked up during the Blight, those of automatically taking stock of his companions every time they stopped, he might not have been able to do so at all. Oghren crashing into his back as he pushed through the brush was, for once, a helpful distraction.

Wulfric’s first concern was for Morrigan. His wife had reformed into her human shape. She was staring at their son, her face filled with utter devastation. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks—Morrigan, who had never wept that Wulfric had seen, not for any reason. He wanted to go to her, but he hadn’t the right. Not now. Possibly not ever again if he couldn’t save their child … not after he had been responsible for the way this situation had unfolded.

Fenris and Isabela stood shoulder to shoulder. She was transfixed by the boy’s light; he was glaring at Anders. The lyrium in his skin gave brief flashes as he tried to suppress his hatred of the mage and his almost palpable need to do something to end the standoff.

Zevran was on the ground, sitting with his legs bent beneath him, cradling Varric’s head in his lap, while Jennie and Fergus both leaned over the dwarf. Varric was moaning faintly, but Wulfric couldn’t tell what was wrong with him.

Of them all, Jennie was the first to break the silence and stillness, turning to look at Anders with tears running down her face. “How could you? He was your friend. He believed in you! How could you turn on him, of all people?”

The blue light wavered, Anders’s features and the sharper, harsher features of another being vying for control. The voice that emerged cracked and shifted from one set of tones to the other. “He got in my way! I didn’t mean to hit Varric.”

Zev stroked the dwarf’s cheek, appearing not to react to Anders’s words, but Wulfric had known the elf too long to miss the way a muscle twitched in his jaw or the almost imperceptible tightening of all Zev’s lean muscles. Given any opening at all, the Crow in him would take flight.

The situation was bad, and if any of the very dangerous people here who were at their breaking point moved, it could get much worse. Every person Wulfric loved in the world was right here, or most of them, at least, and they were here in part because of his actions and decisions. It was up to him to put an end to this.

“Anders!” He stepped forward, putting himself directly in front of the mage and the motionless child. “Let him go.”

“Why should I?” The mage’s voice was fainter now, the spirit’s taking control. “He is the power I need.”

“Justice, this isn’t you. I know you—I brought you here from the Fade. You wanted to experience the world … how could you have let it alter your purpose this way?” Wulfric used his most persuasive tones, the ones that had gotten him pretty much everywhere he wanted. The skill was rusty, since persuasion rarely worked on Morrigan, but he had to try.

“My purpose is to serve Justice where there is need. The mages need it.”

“Why them? Why not the elves? Why not the poor and downtrodden—in this clinic of Anders’s, you must have seen much of the pain and misery that most people suffer.”

“The mages are imprisoned, their powers suffocated, their children torn from them. Their minds torn from them!” Justice pronounced. “They must have their vengeance.”

“You’ve taken Anders’s hurt and his longings and his anger and made them your own, but that is not Justice.”

“They are justified!” 

“They are. No one’s denying that. But theirs isn’t the only justice. What about justice for Arthur?”

“He is a god. His duty is to save his people.”

Wulfric wanted to rush at the stranger who had once been his friend, and briefly even his lover, to snatch his son from that thin, bony hand. But Anders/Justice/whoever he was clearly was too unstable to risk it. He edged forward just slightly, enough to mask Varric’s fallen body and Zev and Jennie and Fergus with his body, so that any retaliation would land on him instead of on them. He didn’t dare glance at Fenris and Isabela, or at Oghren, to see if they were letting him handle it, and he was afraid to look at Morrigan. “He’s a little boy,” he argued. “Look at him. He has the body and mind and knowledge of a child.”

“He has a child’s sense of Justice,” the spirit intoned. “In the body of a god. He will save the mages from their oppression.”

“We’re weeks away from any mages who need your help! How will you get him there? What will you do?” Wulfric could feel his control slipping as tears sprang to his eyes. He raged at his own helplessness. “What made you think this was the answer?”

The spirit receded suddenly and the man spoke with Anders’s voice. “You did.” He drew Arthur against him, cradling the boy’s body tenderly. “Long ago, back in Amaranthine, before you ran out on me. Back when we meant something to each other.” 

All Anders had really been to Wulfric was a friend in whose arms to drown his longing for Morrigan. He’d had no idea that the mage had thought they were more than that. 

Anders didn’t wait for him to speak, nodding at the comprehension that dawned on Wulfric’s face as he continued, “You weren’t all that discreet in your cups, and I learned a few things you didn’t know you had shared. Like the identity of this creature here.” He shook Arthur lightly.

“He’s not a creature, he’s a child!” Fergus protested.

The mage didn’t pause for the interruption. “For many years after you disappeared, I thought that knowledge might not be useful … but then I found that your brother was in town and there was a mysterious expedition, and I knew my time had come. I made sure I was part of the group, even though I knew how unwelcome I would be.” He glared at Jennie. “I hadn’t counted on being made sport of, but it didn’t entirely surprise me.”

Zev didn’t respond to that, but Isabela grimaced.

“And now I have succeeded. This child will give me power over the Chantry, over the Templars, over the civic leaders.”

Wulfric shook his head, wearied and saddened by his former friend’s descent into madness and obsession. “His powers will make things worse for mages—scaring people with great magic is not the way to bring justice to your people. Justice should know that. The Anders I used to know would have known that. And more to the point—you are never, never leaving this forest with my child.”


	46. In Too Deep

“Those are big words,” Anders sneered. “Think you can back them up?”

“He doesn’t have to.” Jennie’s words were accompanied by the sound of her bowstring stretching as she nocked an arrow.

“If you shoot me, how do you know the child won’t die?”

“Forgive me, Wulfric, but right now, I don’t care. It’s better that the little boy dies than that you be allowed to take him from this forest and use the power contained within him in some harebrained scheme to free the mages. He’d be better off with the Maker … or wherever it is that Old Gods go when they die.”

“They’ll never let you get away with this.” There was a faint quaver in his tone, as if he wasn’t quite sure of that.

“Perhaps they won’t.” Jennie didn’t look at any of the others, although she had a fair idea of where each of them stood on this issue. “But even if they kill me for it, you’ll be dead.”

“Hawke, don’t!” Fergus whispered. 

She could imagine how he must be feeling, after having lost his own son, seeing his brother’s child in such a predicament, but she thought there was little chance of saving the boy no matter what they did … and from the lack of movement from Wulfric or Morrigan, she suspected they did, too.

“You heard loverboy,” Anders said, smirking at her. “Don’t. After all, he’s so much more your type than I am. His problems are your problems. Not like me—I was never good enough for you.”

“It wasn’t that,” Jennie said softly. “I never meant to give you the idea that I—“

“No, you didn’t. Neither did they, I’m sure,” he said, his glance flicking to Isabela and then Zev before settling fully on Wulfric. “Or him. No one meant anything … except for Justice. He took on my cause as his own, and he stayed by me. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

“But look what he did to you!” 

Anders’s eyes blazed at her. “He gave me a purpose.” He held the child out and away from his body, and before their horrified eyes, the blue light of Justice and the white light from the Old God began to merge. And then, abruptly, a flash of blinding pure light dazzled them all. When they were able to see again, it was to behold Isabela cradling Arthur’s limp body in her arms, Anders lying on the ground with his mouth open and eyes wide and glassy like those of a fish, and behind him, Fenris, holding Anders’s dripping heart in his hand. He was staring at the organ, transfixed. Then suddenly he dropped it and bolted for the bushes, where he was violently sick.

“Broody got him, didn’t he?” Varric said into the silence. “Thought he might.”

“You are wise, my friend,” Zev said, his hand hovering above Varric’s head as if he wanted to stroke the dwarf’s hair. Then he put it down again.

“No. If I was that, Blondie would be back in Kirkwall.” A tear trickled from one of Varric’s sightless eyes, and he scrubbed his arm over his face to remove any traces of wetness.

Morrigan and Wulfric, meanwhile, he gone on their knees next to Isabela. Morrigan’s hands rushed over him, frantic but trying to be gentle, searching for any sign of what the experience had done to him. Wulfric simply took one of Arthur’s hands and pressed it between both of his, watching the boy’s eyes intently.

Behind her, Jennie heard a strangled sob, and she turned to see Fergus weeping abjectly. Not for Anders, she realized immediately.

Fighting the paroxysm of tears, he mouthed the name “Oren”, and turned away, his shoulders shaking with the violence of his grief. Jennie was startled at the depth of the pain she felt watching him, and there was no hesitation in her as she dropped her bow to the ground and moved in front of him, gently putting her arms around him and holding him as he surrendered all over again to the loss and guilt he carried.

Unnoticed by any of them, Oghren moved to Anders’s body, tidying the splayed limbs, and he lifted the mage over his shoulder. Anders’s hair dragged the ground in front of the dwarf, his boots behind, as Oghren made his way into the bushes with his friend’s remains.

Jennie knew nothing but the tight clasp of Fergus’s arms around her waist, the hot tears that trickled inside the neck of her armor, and the trembling of his body against hers for a long time. The world had contracted and he was the only thing that mattered. She had never experienced any feeling remotely like it before. Was this love? Was this how it felt to truly be in love? If so, no wonder the loss of his wife had devastated him. No wonder Varric mourned the lost Bianca, whoever she had been, enshrining her in the form of his favorite weapon. No wonder her mother had all but given up on living when her father died. But Aveline hadn’t, she reminded herself, choking back the bitterness that the thought of her parents brought up in her. Aveline had taken the love she bore Wesley and cherished it until it was ready to be given to someone else. Maybe Fergus was doing the same, trying to restore his own ability to love. She held him tighter, not sure she cared. Even if he never truly loved her, no one deserved to be in the kind of pain he carried with him.

At last, his weeping ceased. He took a deep, shuddering breath, lifting his head from her shoulder and looking into her face with eyes washed clean of the guilt and anger he had been carrying. “Jennie …” His voice was a hoarse croak after the crying, but there was a wonder in it that spoke volumes.

Before she could respond, a noise from behind her distracted them, and she turned to see the little boy’s fingers curling around his father’s. The sound they had heard had been Arthur’s gasp of breath as he opened his eyes and saw his parents. Isabela carefully backed away, leaving Arthur in Morrigan and Wulfric’s embrace. For a wonder, the witch was crying, actual tears, as was Wulfric, although that was less startling.

Fenris turned away, staring into the trees in order to give the three their privacy, and Zev bowed his head over Varric’s. Isabela, frowning, found Oghren’s path in the brush and started to follow it. And Fergus gently took Jennie’s hand in his and tugged her away. “Let’s leave them alone.”

“Do you think he’ll be … all right?” She meant a world of things in the short phrase, and Fergus seemed to understand that.

“I don’t know. I hope so. He’s not a weapon, that’s something. And he isn’t dead—that’s … everything.” But his voice was free of that crippling pain for the first time, and he squeezed her fingers and looked at her with eyes that for the first time were not clouded by the ghost of a dead woman and her child.


	47. Drawn to the Fire

Oghren was bent over a small pile of sticks on the ground, arranging them carefully. Anders’s body lay next to him, and he kept glancing between the sticks and the body, as if to see if he had built the pyre high enough yet. Isabela nodded to herself. She began sawing at the end of a branch with a dagger, trying not to wince at what this labor would do to the blade. At this rate, they would be cutting wood for ten years, she thought, but it didn’t matter. It needed doing.

“What do you think happened to the spirit of Justice?” she asked after a while.

Oghren’s reply was short, terse, and explicit. Isabela didn’t think spirits did that kind of thing, but she agreed that Justice deserved it if they did.

They cut and piled in silence for another short period of time before Oghren gave a great, wet, snuffly snort. Isabela glanced at him and was touched to see tears streaking his face and running into his beard and mustache. “You want to tell me about him? All I knew was … this.” She indicated the body in its ratty feathered coat. “But sometimes, early on … you could see what he must have been like. Wish I’d known him.”

The dwarf nodded, snuffling some more. “Used to make fun of him,” he offered, “wearin’ those fancy dresses the mages wear, all tight and girly. But I liked ‘im a lot better in the dresses than in those things.” He pointed to the breeches under the coat, torn and filthy after months of travel and what felt like endless amounts of fighting. “Wish ‘e was here right now, insultin’ all my dwarven ancestors. ‘E could drink me under the table, ‘im and the Commander both. Outwench me, too, and there ain’t many can say that.”

“I believe it.” Isabela gave him a quick smile, remembering their surprisingly enjoyable interlude.

With a watery chuckle, Oghren bent back to the pile of sticks. “Never woulda thought of ‘im goin’ all crazy about the mages. He was so happy to get outta there, out from under the Templars. Then that … thing came back from your Stone-damned Fade, started talkin’ to ‘im, an’ … something changed.”

“You mean the spirit of Justice?”

“That’s what it called itself, but who knows. Coulda been anything, really. Never trusted it. Spent all its time talkin’ to people about their troubles, stirrin’ up things that were long buried an’ didn’t need thinkin’ about.” He cleared his throat noisily, hacking away with his axe at a branch. “Don’t know who this fella is. Thought … all this time, maybe I could find my friend in there, but—“

“I think you helped. He was more—he was looser. Lighter.”

“Not enough, though, was it?”

“No. I’m not sure anything could have been. Not anymore.”

“Yeah. Let’s get this done.”

But Isabela couldn’t just cut in silence. The body lying there haunted her; Fade or no Fade, Maker or no Maker, Isabela feared death. Her life was lived consuming pleasure, and there was nothing about a disembodied life in a Maker-driven Fade that appealed to her. Without something to distract her, she kept thinking of Anders, and how one minute he’d been alive and the next dead. Of course, in between he’d been possessed and insane, but considering that didn’t make her feel any better.

“What will you do, when we get back to the world?”

“You think we’ll get there?”

“Of course. Hawke and Cousland wouldn’t let us down.”

“No, I don’t s’pose they would, at that,” Oghren agreed.

“Will you go back to the Wardens?”

He sat back on his heels and stared at her, then turned and spat on the ground in an unmistakable response.

“Maybe not, then. Won’t they be mad if you don’t come back?”

“Sure, they might. Like to see ‘em try to do somethin’ about it.” He got up, pulling down a low-hanging branch and chopping at it. “Thought I might go look up Felsi and the nuglet, see if she’ll take me back. Man’s gotta have somethin’ to live for. Without that …” He glanced at the body, and chopped harder.

Isabela laid her small pile of wood on the ground. Was that true? Was that what happened to you if you had no one in your life who cared for you? She’d never thought of herself as a family person, but that’s what they’d had in Kirkwall—a little family, all of them taking care of each other. Hawke and Varric and Merrill and … they’d all given her someone to talk to, someone who would notice if something happened to her, someone who gave a damn. But now it looked like Hawke would be going to Ferelden, and Varric … would never be the same, and what would happen to that little family without them?

“It might be time to get myself a ship,” she found herself saying. The broody elf would make a good sailor, she thought. “I hope you do go find Felsi, and talk her into taking you back, make some more nuglets. Name one Isabela, won’t you?”

Oghren chuckled. “I might just think about that. You goin’ to talk that elf into knockin’ boots?”

“Yes,” she said with determination. “Yes, I am.”

“Good luck to ya.”

Good luck indeed, Isabela thought. She’d need it.

They both went back to methodically chopping away at whatever branches they could reach and stacking the wood when they were done. Whether he deserved it or not, whether the Maker wanted him or not, whether they believed in it all or not, they would see Anders to the Maker and hope it brought him some peace.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jennie was feeling incredibly useless. Fergus knelt with his brother and Morrigan as the three of them bent over Arthur. As far as Jennie could tell, the child seemed to be recovering from his ordeal fairly well. He certainly didn’t need another adult, and practically a stranger at that, looming above him. And whatever lay between herself and Fergus hardly qualified her as a member of the family. 

Zev bent over Varric, murmuring to him. The dwarf’s voice was getting stronger, but he seemed remarkably content to lie there being cradled by the elf. Jennie wouldn’t have imagined her friend being attracted to an elf, or a man, for that matter … but then, she’d never much thought about Varric being attracted to anyone. Why not Zev? He certainly was good-looking, and appeared very confident in his own powers of attraction, and he was intelligent enough for Varric.

Whatever reason, clearly there was something there, so she left the two of them alone. She had little skill in healing, anyway, and couldn’t have helped with any of Varric’s injuries. Looking down at her hands, she wished, unusually for her, that some of her father’s magic had been passed down to her, instead of all of it going to Bethany. If only she had been able to heal, maybe she could have saved Varric’s sight.

“Your thoughts are all too clear. I sympathize,” Fenris said from beside her. “While I despise magic, I would have been glad to have had some included with the lyrium if it meant I could have aided our friend.”

Funny, Jennie had never thought of Fenris and Varric as being particularly close; but for Fenris to admit to such a desire he had to feel strong ties to the dwarf. It occurred to Jennie for the first time to wonder how things would change when they all got back to Kirkwall.

She had no time to follow that line of thought, however, as a rustling in the branches around them preceded the arrival of several of the Driazi, as well as Bethany. The mage took in the situation quickly and rushed to Varric’s side, gently pushing Zev’s hands away. Her brows furrowed in the way they did when she was giving herself to healing magic, and Jennie moved closer to watch her sister. It was in moments such as these that Bethany most strongly resembled their father.

It didn’t last long, however. Bethany sat back on her heels and with a sorrowful look, gave Varric the bad news. “Your other injuries have healed well; you’re in fine physical condition. I think your hands will need some exercise to limber them up, given the scar tissue, but they should eventually come back to full use. Your eyes, though—“

“Sunshine. I could’ve told you that.”

“But Varric, Bianca—“

“Bianca does her own talking. I merely hold her and let her sing.” He pushed Zev away and got to his feet. “Anyone know what happened to Blondie? I’d like to see—I mean, say good-bye.”

“Oghren took him into the bushes. I can show you—I can lead you in the proper direction,” Fenris said, looking abashed over his slip of the tongue. 

“Thanks. Flash, you want to come say good-bye to the mage?”

Zev shrugged eloquently.

“Your silence is assumed to be a shrug. Humor me, will you?”

“Ah, your perceptiveness has not diminished, my friend. I will follow where our delectable tattooed companion leads.”

Fenris glared at Zev, but without heat, then turned and plunged into the brush in the direction Oghren had taken.

Jennie and Bethany were left together, as the Driazi had joined the group clustered around Arthur, and were hearing the little boy’s tale of his adventures, told in a mixture of Common and the odd hissing language of the Driazi. Jennie couldn’t help but smile—it was good to hear him chatter that way.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be here in time to help.”

“I believe you mean that,” Jennie said in some surprise. At Bethany’s bristle, she added, “You have to admit, it’s a bit odd, since only days ago you were trying to kill us all. Now you wish you could have helped save us. What happened?”

“I … found a place where my magic could help. I can’t really explain it. These people … they don’t value the magic. They’re willing to let me use the magic to help them, but if there was no magic there, they would just use something else. They’re used to getting along without it, and wouldn’t mind continuing to do so. I don’t think you can understand what it’s like to be a mage back there.” Bethany gestured toward the rest of the world, somewhere far from them. At Jennie’s automatic roll of the eyes, she hurried on. “I know, you’ve heard that a lot—because I wanted you to see how special and important it made me to have magic, how powerful. But it was all that I was; magic became my whole world, my reason for living. I thought joining the Wardens was the answer, that they would let me use my powers and respect me for everything else I could do—but all they wanted was the magic. In the end, they weren’t much different than the Chantry, except that they wanted to use my powers to destroy instead of to chain them up and keep them unused. They still wanted to control my magic, and disregarded me.”

“And that’s … different here?” Jennie had a hard time imagining what Bethany brought to the Driazi other than her magic.

“I know what you’re thinking—I’ve always been a city girl, what do I know about living in the forest? But they’re teaching me, Jennie. They’re helping me to develop skills I didn’t even know I had. Did you know that I can cook?”

“No. That one escaped my notice.” She thought of a few dinners Bethany had attempted, back when they all lived together, and grimaced.

“Disgusting, weren’t they?” Bethany asked, following her thoughts. “But a little tutelage, and I can manage some basic meals. For the first time in my life! And I don’t have to look over my shoulder wondering when the Chantry is coming, or when my neighbors will want to burn my house down around my ears.”

“So … I take it you’re staying.”

Bethany’s eyes strayed to Jitzal, a faint flush stealing over her cheeks. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, congratulations to you. I hope you’ll be happy.” Jennie thought she might have managed to sound sincere. Not that she begrudged her sister happiness, exactly, but she’d never considered Bethany all that downtrodden in the first place, so this sudden enthusiasm over her ‘freedom’ seemed a bit overblown. Perhaps she wasn’t giving her sister the benefit of the doubt; perhaps Bethany was lying to herself and would be miserable in six months’ time. Either way … Bethany was no longer in any way Jennie’s responsibility, and that was an almost perceptible weight off her shoulders. Her sister was frowning, clearly sensing a lack of sincerity, and Jennie smiled. “Really, Bethany. Best of luck to you.”

“Thank you. And to you.” Bethany glanced curiously at Fergus, but to Jennie’s relief, didn’t ask.

They embraced, briefly and rather awkwardly, and drew apart.

Isabela emerged from the underbrush. “Any of you want to come see the mage to the Maker?”

“Here?” Fergus asked in surprise. He glanced up at the trees.

“Where else?” Isabela shrugged. “We’ve watered down everything in the clearing, and if the lady mages would like to come along and help control the fire, they’d have our appreciation.”

Morrigan’s lips thinned. “I would not dignify that wretched corpse with such an honor even if I believed in your Maker.” She turned her back, leaning over Arthur.

“No, Mama, he wanted to be good,” the little boy whispered. “He was trying to help … he just didn’t know how. Let us give him peace.” He stood up, putting one small hand in Morrigan’s and one in Wulfric’s.

Jennie and Bethany, for once in accord, followed, along with Fergus and, hanging slightly back, the Driazi.

The pyre was surprisingly sizeable, and it caught well. Bethany stood with the Driazi and explained, in halting hisses, what was going on. Varric shut his eyes, tears leaking from the damaged lids, and one of Zev’s hands came to rest on his shoulder. Morrigan watched her son instead of the pyre as Arthur gazed at the departing mage with pity. Pain was etched in Wulfric’s face, pain and anger and sorrow over the loss of a friend. Isabela drew back, not wanting her emotions to be seen. In the dimness outside the circle of light from the fire, she bumped into a firm, strong chest. With some surprise, she realized it was Fenris’s. With even more surprise, she realized that he wasn’t pulling away from the contact. She drew comfort from his warmth and steadiness, even knowing that he saw nothing to mourn in the loss of the mage.

Jennie couldn’t help remembering Anders’s little jokes, the seriousness in his face when he healed someone, the care with which he tended all the stray cats of Darktown. There had been so much of value there, and it had all been wasted. She turned away from the pyre, looking for Fergus, and reached out a hand. He took it in his, squeezing gently. 

Oghren stared, dry-eyed. He had cried all his tears, he had said good-bye to his friend in what seemed to him to be the right way. Tomorrow, he would start for Orzammar, and go home to his family. He only hoped that they would have him back.


	48. Worlds Apart

Most of the Driazi tribe, including Bethany and Jitzal, left after the pyre was finished, talking among themselves about these strange outsider customs. Jennie watched her sister go, for probably the last time in their lives, with little emotion. They had never been close; she hoped Bethany would be happy, but that was largely up to Bethany, as it always had been.

Jennie’s concerns were more immediate—was Arthur fully recovered? What would Morrigan and Wulfric do now? When could she think about gathering her people and going home to Kirkwall? Questions about Fergus tickled the back of her mind, but she left them there for the moment. The discussion of any future to be had there would have to wait until they returned to civilization. Here, nothing seemed quite real. Even Anders’s betrayal and death felt somehow distant and not quite possible—she kept catching herself looking back over her shoulder for him and having to remind herself that he was nothing but ashes flying to the Maker’s side. 

Arthur appeared in full voice, at least, chattering away to his mother and father, who notably did not seem to be speaking much to each other. They flanked him protectively, though, wherever he went. Jennie wondered how long that would last. She didn’t know much about children, but she knew none of them liked to have their parents constantly within arm’s reach. Sooner or later Arthur would balk against their nearness, despite the dangers he’d already been through.

She didn’t say as much to Fergus, who walked next to her as they made their way back toward camp, but she could see him watching his brother and Morrigan with troubled eyes. Varric walked with Zev behind her, and she could hear the growing testiness in the dwarf’s voice. He, too, would rebel against the protectiveness. Zev had previously understood better Varric’s need to assert his ability to take care of himself; Jennie wondered what had changed. But she assumed that when Varric had had enough, he would make that point clearly enough that the elf would get it.

The camp still bore traces of the battle between the dragon Flemeth and the giant creature of the forest. None of them cared enough to try to fix anything, though—one and all they found their bedrolls and collapsed on them where they lay. Except for Morrigan, who sat awake staring at her child, her eyes unnaturally wide as she fought her weariness.

Wulfric was unable to settle into sleep, tossing and turning until he decided he had to get up or risk waking Arthur. Sitting up on the bedroll, he tried to meet Morrigan’s eyes. Hers were dry, fixed, practically burning a hole in the child with the intensity of her stare. He reached for her hand; she jerked it away without looking at him.

“Please,” he whispered softly. “He won’t be able to settle with you staring at him that way. Come over here; we have to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

This state of affairs was not going to continue. In a low, steely voice, he said, “We are having this talk. We can have it here and waken Arthur, and distress him, or we can have it quietly over there where we won’t have to disturb our son.” 

Without a word, or a glance in his direction, Morrigan rose and walked to the edge of the clearing, where they could watch the child sleep. “What have you to say?” she asked when he joined her.

“I’m sorry. Morrigan, I am so sorry to have brought this danger here, to have spoken out of turn all those years ago where Anders could hear me.”

She folded her arms, staring down at the ground. After a moment, she huffed an almost-silent laugh, which startled Wulfric more than almost anything else she might have done. Looking up, she met his eyes at last. “I was prepared to be murderously furious with you. But I find on further consideration I cannot.” She shrugged, her narrow shoulders seeming so delicate to have carried so much fear for all this time. “After all, what is it that you have done? You have spoken out when you should not have—long years ago when you could not have known what was to come—and you have brought danger to the forest … in company with friends who came to spare our child the far greater danger that I had put him in. I find that you have no more to apologize for than I have … in fact, significantly less. Can we—can we put this all behind us and never speak of it again?”

Wulfric could do no more than nod dumbly, unable to find words for her generosity and her sudden and unexpected warmth. He opened his arms to her, and she came into them. He closed his eyes and rested his head against her smooth black hair. “I was afraid you would want to leave me, to take Arthur and go where no one could ever find you. Including me.”

“No,” Morrigan murmured. “I was dismayed to find before Arthur was born that I cannot seem to do without you, no matter how hard I may try. Nor can he.” She pressed herself even closer against him. “I love you.”

They were words he didn’t hear frequently from her—Flemeth’s long years of training were hard to overcome—and he cherished them. “And I you.”

After another moment she pulled away from him, brushing off her skirt in a business-like manner that signaled the end of the emotional reunion, at least while there were so many eyes in their camp to see. “The question remains, what shall we do now?”

He tightened his lips as her point sank in. “You don’t think Flemeth is gone.”

“I do not think Flemeth can be killed. And she knows where we are now. Indeed, she has promised to return.”

“We did our best to hide from her before, and she still found us. If she can find us here … I don’t think Thedas has any ends farther than this one.”

“I had thought … perhaps we could go to Par Vollen and attempt to discover how the Qunari came to Thedas. There might be a way to go back where they came from and escape Thedas, and thus Flemeth, entirely.”

Wulfric raised his eyebrows. “The Qunari? Who would cut out your tongue, and Arthur’s, and chain you up like slaves as soon as they saw what you could do? Not a chance. I’d rather risk being found by Flemeth.”

Morrigan stared at him, her eyes stormy, and he waited for the argument, but she surprised him again by letting out her breath in a long sigh. She turned her head to gaze at the sleeping child. “You have a point.”  
He quelled his immediate temptation, which was to say, “I do?” Instead he raised his hands to her shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Then we stay here?”

“Is that what you wish?”

Wulfric nodded. “Yes. This is—you and Arthur, and our life here together—we’ve been happy, haven’t we?”

“Happy?” Morrigan asked, pretending the word was an unfamiliar one. Then she smiled, her rare and bewitching smile. “We have. If this is where you prefer to stay … it is as good as anywhere else. Quite possibly better.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” Wulfric said.

“I hope that I never shall.” She took his hand. “Let us get some sleep.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fergus woke the next morning in broad daylight, with birds twittering far above his head. He sat up, trying not to groan as his stiff and sore muscles twinged. The rest of the camp was filled with sleeping people—even Zevran, who had never been known to sleep past dawn, was still passed out. Jennie lay on her side, her face peaceful in her slumber. What was he to do about her? He cared for her, that much he couldn’t deny … but did he see her as Teyrna? In his mother’s place? In Oriana’s? Those were harder questions, and the answer wasn’t obvious. He didn’t want to push anything until it was, but what if it never became clear?

Sighing, he got up off his bedroll and walked toward the river for a drink of water.

At the river’s edge, he found Fenris, sitting and moodily watching the water roll by.

“You appear undamaged by yesterday’s events,” the elf remarked.

“I’ll live.” Fergus bent to drink. “What about you?”

“I, too, will live. Such as it is. Tell me,” Fenris added, with almost palpable hesitancy, “do you … enjoy living alone?”

“Me? No. Never have. I only do it because …” Fergus trailed off, shrugging. “The alternative has been just as unbearable.”

Fenris nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you considering a … more companionable future?” Fergus asked. 

The elf shrugged, looking intensely uncomfortable. “I believe the decision may have been made without my being entirely aware of having done so.”

“Hm. Best of luck to you.”

“I will need it,” Fenris said, staring morosely into the water.

Most men surely wouldn’t respond to being pursued by Isabela in that way, Fergus reflected as he made his way back to camp. Still, none of this assembled company was exactly like most people, and he could understand Fenris’s dismay at facing a future he had never considered before.

Of course, he thought, arriving in camp and watching his brother at the cooking fire, Wulfric had certainly never imagined that he would end up living like a wild man in a forgotten forest with a witch and their half-god child … but he had embraced his life, and looked happier with Morrigan than Fergus had ever seen him. “You’ve done good, little brother,” he announced without preamble, walking up behind the younger, taller man crouching by the fire.

“That’s debatable.”

“Not really. You’ve built a family and a life that suits them. Much as Mother would have exclaimed over the lack of books, she’d have been proud to see you this way.”

Wulfric stood up. “So you’re not going to pressure me to come back?”

“You think I’d do that to you? If you were still shorter than I am I’d smack you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I bet you would.” They grinned at each other. “Are you staying here, then?”

“Yes. All things considered, it seems safest—and we’re happy here.” Wulfric looked toward Morrigan and Arthur, who still slept, curled in each other’s arms. “There’s no one like her anywhere in Thedas. She’s—I can’t even explain it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry.” Wulfric gripped Fergus’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

“It was a long time ago, little brother. It’s time I looked into the future instead of the past.” He felt comfortable with the idea now. He had loved Oriana and Oren, but their time had been over for a long while—mourning them and refusing to allow love back into his life wouldn’t help them. 

“With Jennie?”

“Maybe.”

“I like her. She has grit. Father would have liked her.”

“And Mother?”

“Would have taken her under her wing and polished her up. She’s less hopeless than Morrigan,” Wulfric said, grinning. “I wish you both well, Fergus.”

“Then this is good-bye.” It struck Fergus that he really was ending his old life today, leaving behind for good the last remnant of the family he had grown up with. “You take care of yourself, Wulfric.”

“I will.”

“What will you do if you need me again? Do you want to send that ring along with me?”

“No, I think from here on we fight our own battles. I imagine if we ever needed you again, by the time you got here it would be too late.”

Tears stung Fergus’s eyes and he let them come, unashamed. “I’m so proud of you.”

“And I of you.” There were answering tears in Wulfric’s eyes as the two brothers embraced.

It took another couple of days to collect their things and get everything—and everyone—back into traveling form again, but all too soon Fergus was astride a horse, looking over his shoulder at the last sight of the Tirashan Forest. His brother and Morrigan and Arthur had waved as long as they could be seen, but they were gone now, swallowed up in myth. It was all too likely that they would never see each other again in this world … but hopefully there would be a next, and their family would be together once more.

“You all right?” Jennie asked, drawing rein to ride alongside him.

“Yes. I think I am. For the first time in years.”


	49. Homeward Bound

The return across the marsh was uneventful; the horses were rested and had been well-cared-for by members of the Driazi tribe during their time in the forest, so they made good time. The wooden structures of Ghislain were in front of them sooner than they had expected.

Flash drew up the reins of his horse, staring at the buildings. “It is no Antiva City,” he remarked, “but it may well be the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld.”

“Me, too.” Varric stopped, too, at the sound of Flash’s voice. He’d been trusting the horse’s vision and his own hearing to guide him, and had done pretty well, keeping the horse at a fairly steady walk. Flash had wanted to tie an extra rein to his own horse, so that Varric’s couldn’t run off with him, but that idea had died a hasty death. Varric blessed Hawke for being supportive of his need to do these things himself; and he wondered why Flash, who had a horror of depending on others, couldn’t see that in Varric.

There was silence after Varric’s remark, and he shook his head. They’d have to get used to it; after all, he had.

“Can’t wait for some decent food. And a comfortable bed.” There was a throatiness in Rivaini’s voice that made Varric smile. Her comment couldn’t have been more clearly intended for the ears of the broody elf if she had whispered it in them. He could almost imagine Broody’s reaction, too—a faint stiffening of the spine, his expression unchanged, his all-too-eloquent eyes the only part of him showing his fear. Varric’s money was firmly on Rivaini, but the elf was proving a more difficult nut to crack than he would have imagined.

He could hear voices ahead of them now, the typical bustle of a village, and his heartbeat quickened. Diverting as adventures might be, they couldn’t compare to the flow of stories that passed through a person’s fingers in a town. Each person who went by, lost in their own life, in their own head. Varric could no longer see their abstracted faces, but he could hear their voices, their movements, their footsteps, and those told more about people than they imagined—more than the face. People spent so much time worrying about what their faces said, they left the rest of their body’s tells largely unnoticed. But Varric noticed them; he always had. Part of him—the stoic, philosophical part he depended on—looked forward to the challenge of learning to see the world without seeing it. The part that screamed in agony at the thought of never seeing his own words flowing across a page again, or watching a bar fight in the Hanged Man, he kept carefully buried. No good could come of letting that feeling out. Not to mention that he refused to give the other members of the party a reason to pity him. Let them see him soldiering on.

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as the horse stopped moving again unexpectedly, this time of its own volition, and Varric had all he could do to avoid going nose-first into the back of the animal’s neck. 

“I am sorry. I should have warned you,” Flash said quietly.

Varric stifled his automatic irritation. “I should have been paying better attention.”

“Perhaps so.”

The elf’s voice was enigmatic, and Varric automatically turned his head to see the expression on Flash’s face, cursing inwardly when nothing changed in the blackness before him. This would take a lot of getting used to.

He submitted to being helped down from the horse, but then pushed away the hands that would have guided him toward the inn. He raised his face to the air, sniffing, and followed the smell of ale, one hand out in front of him as nonchalantly as he could manage to avoid running into the door, or worse, the side of the building.

It was then that the true reality of the situation hit him—the whispers and shocked gasps of the people passing by on the wooden sidewalk as they caught sight of his scarred face. That would be short-lived once he returned home; the denizens of the Hanged Man would get used to him, he told himself. Once he was home, where he belonged, there would be a period of adjustment, which he would ignore, and life would go on as usual. He closed his ears to the whispering, allowing a casual hand on his shoulder—Hawke’s—to point him in the direction of the door.

The smells overwhelmed him once he heard the door bang shut behind him. After all that fresh air, and the trees and the grass, Varric was overjoyed to smell people again, in all their glory. Vomit and ale and stale breath and perfume and woodsmoke and something cooking … Home.

Next to him, he heard a faint sound of disgust as Flash caught and reacted to the same blend of smells. Varric gave a small, humorless smile at the difference in their responses.

Hawke and Cousland were at the counter, negotiating with the innkeeper for rooms. Four, Hawke said, and Varric counted up. One for Hawke and Rivaini, one for Cousland and Broody, one for himself and Flash. A shiver of anticipation shook him at the thought, dimmed by a touch of trepidation. But he couldn’t follow the train of thought because Hawke was turning to Rowdy. 

“You don’t mind a room to yourself, do you?” she was asking. Varric could hear the grin on her face in her voice.

But the expected approval from Rowdy didn’t come. Instead he cleared his throat and shuffled his feet on the ground. “Er … Well, you see … I’m not stayin’.”

Hawke was immediately solicitous, but Rivaini cut into the rush of words. “Go get ‘em,” she said. “Tell them—tell them everything they need to hear.”

Rowdy’s voice brightened as he answered her. “Yeah. I’ll do that. You all … uh … atrast nal tunsha.” The dwarven words rolled awkwardly off his tongue.

There was a chorus of good-byes, and Varric found his hand being roughly shaken in the confusion, and then the sound of clanking metal headed out the door.

“I hope he’ll be all right,” Hawke said.

“I think he’ll be fine,” Cousland assured her.

Rivaini was standing next to Varric; he could tell by her perfume and the scent of the sea that always seemed to cling to her. “He’s got his feet on the right path now; they’ll lead him where he belongs.”

“Lucky him,” Broody muttered, but Varric wondered if he really believed that.

“What was it he said?” Hawke asked.

“May you always—“ Flash began, and Varric finished the phrase with him, “find your way in the dark.”

“It’s a dwarven blessing,” Varric explained. “Deep Roads and all that. It’s plenty dark in Orzammar, or so I’m told.”

“It is,” Flash said.

They were all quiet after that, as everyone—except Varric, naturally; he’d only have been in the way—unloaded the horses and carried their bags to their rooms. Varric found a table in the crowded main floor and tried to pretend he was in the Hanged Man. 

Dinner was a fine stew, with fresh-made bread and poor enough quality ale that it could have been a Hanged Man vintage. Varric could feel himself relaxing. Perhaps the view in front of him was black, but it was populated by his imagination, which was often more entertaining anyway.

There were awkward silences after dinner, both Rivaini and the broody elf and Cousland and Hawke staring, or trying not to stare, at each other, but in either case painfully aware of each other and the words unspoken between them. Varric wondered if Flash was giving him the same looks. He scraped his chair back. It was time to end this, one way or another.

“Shall we?” he asked in Flash’s direction, and immediately a slim hand tucked itself under his elbow. Varric couldn’t deny that he could feel that touch all the way through him. The thought of going to bed with Flash was exciting, undeniably so—his skills would be interesting to sample. But it had been a long time since Varric felt the need for that type of contact. Bianca had been enough for him.

His free hand reached for Bianca, feeling the unfamiliar scarring on her stock. He had let her down; the most significant relationship of his adult life, and he had let her down. 

The door closed behind them. “Alone at last, my friend,” Flash said softly. Varric was amused to hear a faint uncertainty in that practiced voice.

“Yes. Everything you imagined?” he asked, trying to keep the chuckle out of his own voice and failing miserably. Moving carefully, he unslung Bianca and found a corner for her to sit in while this conversation occurred.

“That remains to be seen.” Flash was right behind him, and he turned into the elf’s embrace, letting the hot, hungry kiss happen. 

It felt good; it tasted good. Varric indulged himself for a few minutes, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of being pressed against someone else’s body, feeling someone else’s need, all for him. Then he pulled back. “Flash.” He cleared his throat and started again. “Zevran.”

“Uh-oh. That cannot be good.” The elf retreated, and Varric heard bedropes creaking as he sat down.

“I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to where this is headed.”

“Right here, I had hoped.” He patted the bed.

“And after that?”

Varric could almost hear the eloquent shrug. “I rarely think about ‘after that’, as you say.”

“You’re lying.”

“Perhaps. You are too perceptive for your own good.”

“For your own good, you mean.”

Flash laughed. “That, too.”

They were silent for a few minutes. 

“So …” Flash said at last. “You are declining my invitation.”

“Couldn’t read the engraving,” Varric said sardonically.

Flash caught his breath. “It pains me to hear you joke that way.”

“Would it be better if I cried? Not my style. Tears cloud the vision … as it were … and the judgment. Better to take what you’re given and find something to do with it. I’ll go home and pay one of the barmaids to transcribe stories for me.”

“Yes. I see that. You are a survivor, my friend. Your resilience impresses me. In your shoes … I could not be as resigned. But that is what one gets for gauging another by one’s own measurement.”

Varric sighed, groping for the other bed and climbing up on to it. He lay back, rejoicing in the feeling of a real mattress after all this time. “I’m not resilient. I’m tired. I want nothing more than to go home to Kirkwall and spend the rest of my days in the stench of old ale at the Hanged Man with my feet stretched out in front of the fire.” He smiled. “I bet you think that sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry.”

“No.” The ropes creaked again, Flash laying back on his own bed. “Toasting one’s feet in front of the fire, especially in these frigid southern countries, has its place … for a time.”

“But then you’d want to be off doing something.”

“Yes.” After a pause, Flash said, “I thought … perhaps I did not think. Perhaps I only felt, something I have rarely felt in my life. I thought I was not alone in that.”

“You weren’t.” Varric didn’t mind admitting it. “But—I said no to that kind of thing a long time ago. When you’re a dreamer, like I am, there’s no happily-ever-after that’s as happy as you imagined it would be.”

“No, I imagine not. When you are a realist, like I am, there is no happily-ever-after at all. Merely content-for-a-time. I would have liked to try that.”

“Wouldn’t have been enough for me. But too much, at the same time, if you follow.”

“I do.” Flash sighed.

They were both silent for a long time.

“Zevran?”

“Mm?”

“Your feet are welcome in front of my fire any time you want a rest.”

Varric could picture the elf’s smile. “I will keep that in mind.”

Soon Flash’s breathing evened out as he drifted into sleep. Varric allowed himself a moment to mourn the life he was saying no to—the lovemaking, the friendship, the feeling of belonging to someone—and then he reached over the side of his bed, his hand finding Bianca unerringly in his darkness, and he lifted her up next to him. He had made his choices long ago … he would stick to them.

He fell asleep dreaming of the smell of old ale.


	50. Leather and Lace

The overland trip was relatively uneventful, and they found themselves back on the Imperial Highway, heading east toward Val Chevin, sooner than Fenris would have anticipated, given the general level of exhaustion within the company. Sleeping in the questionable beds of overcrowded taverns had grown wearisome after the third night, so they had eschewed that and returned to tents for the rest of the journey, everyone feeling more comfortable with a more gradual re-entry into the world of men.

It was less strange to Fenris than it was to some of the others that such different worlds as the wilderness of the Tirashan and the bustle of an Orlesian seaport existed—he thought of Tevinter’s elegant dwellings and the savagery that lurked within them, of Seheron’s heated jungles and the warmth of heart he had found there. The idea of warmth led his gaze to Isabela, riding ahead of him. Her head was up, catching the sea breeze she had missed so, and she seemed brighter and more alive than she had since they’d turned inland months ago. He felt a strange stirring within him at the sight of her—not in his loins, which would have been the more natural response, but in his heart, which was far more disturbing. 

He looked away from her, moving his horse closer to Varric’s.

“Too much happiness for you, eh, Broody?” The dwarf chuckled, and Fenris cursed Varric’s powers of perception, which were, if anything, sharper now that he had lost his sight than they had been before. His silence amused Varric, who said, “Might as well give up now; Rivaini usually gets what she wants.”

“Except for her ship,” Fenris said sharply.

“Maybe that’s not what she really wanted.”

Fenris frowned, not entirely sure he liked that implication – and not entirely sure that he didn’t. 

Ahead of them, Jennie and Fergus rode easily next to one another, in a comfortable silence. Neither of them had touched on the question of what they would do once they reached civilization, as if by mutual accord leaving that question to be handled when it must be and not until then. In the meantime, they’d spent the journey enjoying each other’s company, holding hands and exchanging the occasional sweet but careful kiss. Jennie hadn’t wanted to push farther than that without knowing for sure where they were going—or at least where she wanted to go—and she suspected Fergus felt the same. Now that the white buildings of Val Chevin were in sight, though, decisions were going to have to be made; decisions she didn’t know if she was ready for.

They camped outside the city, all of them strangely reluctant to spend this last night on the road amongst other people, despite the enticements of soft beds and hot food. The crackle of the campfire, the familiar tasks they all fell into—it was hard to believe this would be the last time they would experience it all. Fenris felt an odd sense of melancholy, and an even more odd sense of reluctance to return to the solitude of his crumbling mansion. The feelings frightened him; there was no safety in dependence on others. Looking up as he dropped an armload of firewood on the pile while the others were clearing up from dinner, he saw Isabela’s eyes on him, and he shivered with fear, and more. She stirred up emotions in him that he had no memory of ever experiencing before, and he did not like it, but seemed powerless to get away from the feelings—or Isabela. He had looked forward to Kirkwall, to barricading himself in the mansion and refusing to see her, but now that anticipation had lost its savor, and the idea of going a day without Isabela’s teasing glances, her throaty laugh, her sheer energy and vibrance caused him to feel oddly chilled and bereft.

He turned from her now, disappearing into the trees where he hoped she would not follow, not until he could collect himself.

As Zevran and Varric retired to their tent together, companionably trading innuendoes, and Isabela took off into the trees after Fenris, Jennie remained where she was, watching Fergus’s strong, capable hands adding wood to the fire, stoking it up so that it would last well into the night, providing that last bit of warmth. It was time for the discussion, she knew; there could be no more putting it off. But how to begin, she didn’t know. What she would say, she didn’t know. What she wanted … was still as much a mystery to her as what Fergus wanted. She clasped her hands together, the thin fingers twisting around each other.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to attack you,” Fergus said.

Looking up, Jennie couldn’t tell if he was joking or exasperated. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He sat back on his heels, not making a move toward her. “We have to have a talk about this.”

“I wish I knew what I wanted to say.” 

“I wish I did, too.” Fergus sighed. “I … This would all be so much easier without Highever, but I have a duty there. I have to do right by my people—I’m all they have left.”

“I know you do. I admire you for that.”

“But do you see yourself there, as Teyrna?” He must have seen the shiver that worked its way through Jennie, because he smiled. “I didn’t think so. But you’re the Champion of Kirkwall, one of the city’s foremost nobles. There’s not as much difference as you might think.”

“There’s more than you’re imagining. I didn’t become Champion because I was noble; I became Champion because I killed people who needed it when no one else would. Because I killed the Arishok. Or people think I did.”

“Someday you’re going to tell me that story, right?”

Jennie smiled. “Someday.”

In the exchange of “someday”s there was a promise of something to come, and both of them relaxed perceptibly.

“Tomorrow I’ll have to go home to Ferelden,” Fergus said. “I’ve left the Teyrnir to its own devices for long enough. Too long, probably.”

“I know. And I have to go back to Kirkwall.” She wasn’t really sure what for; there wasn’t much left for her there. But … it was where her mother had died, where her family had last been together. And there was Varric—she had to see him safely home.

“So there we are.” He sighed.

“When you’ve settled things in Highever, maybe …” Jennie let the words trail off, not sure if she was comfortable being quite this forward.

“I imagine I can find some reason to make it back to Kirkwall—if that’s what you’d like.”

“Yes.”

“Then, in that case …” He got to his feet and came to sit next to her. “In that case, can I have a kiss to take with me?”

Jennie nodded, turning to face him. He took her face in his hands, looking at her as though to memorize her face, and slowly, slowly drew her to him. The warmth of his body seemed to fill her, and she slid her arms around him, wanting to get closer, as she opened her lips for him, allowing him to deepen the kiss. She trusted him, she thought suddenly. Everything else aside, she trusted him not to hurt her. It was a miraculous feeling, and she melted against him. This wasn’t the night … but when he came back to Kirkwall, whatever the decision they made about their future, she would know what it was like to be loved by him. She made that promise for them both.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He had not retreated far enough, Fenris thought, listening to the slow, deliberate crunch of Isabela’s boots as she neared him. But how far would have been enough? She had pursued him from Kirkwall to Orlais through the swamps to the Tirashan and back, and had not let up in her relentless … attention. Only Danarius had ever found Fenris to be of enough importance to follow him. Now here was this woman who could have anyone—and had done so, in Fenris’s presence, even, back in Kirkwall—and she had not swerved in her focus on him. 

Fenris tried to tell himself that he had been the only one before her that she had not already possessed, that his very retreat had taunted her and all but dared her to continue coming after him … but somewhere deep within him he did not believe it. He felt that, however unexpectedly, this woman understood parts of him that he only rarely acknowledged the existence of, and that frightened him. So he ran, and he hid, like the worst sort of coward.

"Thought I'd find you out here." She had one strong browned hand wrapped around the slender trunk of a tree, anchoring herself as she leaned away from it.

"I do not know what you seek."

"Yes, you do." She was smiling, but her eyes were sad and filled with understanding. "Haven't I told you that there are ways around your troubles? Why would you deny yourself everything I can offer?"

Fenris decided to go on the offensive—or that's what he told himself. When he spoke, there was a wistfulness and a yearning in his voice that had crept in all on their own. "What, precisely, can you offer?"

"Ohhh." Isabela's eyes warmed a bit. "You want promises. Commitment. The big L."

"What? No!" Fenris would not have known what to do with declarations of love had she offered them—nor would he have trusted such protestations coming from Isabela. They were not her style.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want not to be alone." The words rushed from his mouth before he could stop them, before he even knew what he wanted to say. He froze, seeing the words as though they physically hung in the air before him, betraying his innermost feelings. He wanted desperately to take them back, but it was far too late.

"Companionship I have in spades." Without seeming to have moved, Isabela was suddenly closer. Not quite within arms' reach, but getting there.

Fenris struggled with his twin impulses—to flee, turning tail and running, or to close the distance between them and feel her body pressed against his. Unable to decide, he stayed where he was. "You offer companionship, but for how long?"

"As long as we both want. Until someone gets bored." Her sudden smile was the most genuine one yet as she took in his reaction to her words. "I know you," she said softly. "You want assurances, promises that if you let go of all that fear and let someone touch you that it won't be for nothing, that it'll mean something. And it will—it'll mean you've learned to open up, that you've said 'kiss my ass' to your old master and taken a step toward being your own man. Everything else … that's just gravy."

It sounded good, he had to admit. She had a persuasive way about her, and those were seductive concepts. He wanted to be free of Danarius, to cast off the invisible shackles that still held him. Why was he clinging to them so hard? Because without them, he told himself, he was naked; could he bare himself that way, to her, to anyone?

"Fenris."

At Isabela's voice, he looked up. She was much closer now, so close he could see the flecks of a darker honey color in her clear golden eyes. If he could trust anyone with the core of himself, it was Isabela. She knew the depths of the human soul as well as she did the depths of the sea—she had seen enough of both, and judged no one for their errors, or at least, Fenris had never noticed her doing so. Isabela was aware enough of her own foibles that she was not hasty to leap to correct those of others.

"Stop fighting it so hard. It won't hurt … unless you want it to." Her voice dropped, husky and tempting.

A spear of desire, sharp and hard and hot, lanced through him. He wanted everything she promised—the pleasure and the pain, the relief of being known and cared for, the mystery of the unknown that lay in the future she dangled so alluringly before him.

Isabela must have read his response in his eyes, because she buried her hands in his hair, pulling just enough to hurt, and brought his mouth to hers. Fenris moaned at the contact, at the sweetness and the heat of her, and his hands sought her hips, pulling her body against his. He lost himself in the kiss, willfully keeping his mind away from the memories that flashed at the edges, of Danarius and of Hadriana and their kisses, their touches. They were not here; they had no power over him. This was his choice, and it was real.

He moved his hands from Isabela's hips down to the bare skin of her thighs, smooth and supple. She gasped, and it occurred to him that his gauntlets with the sharpened fingertips weren't precisely designed for this activity. Reluctantly, he took his hands off her and removed the gauntlets, tucking them away in his belt. Isabela caught his hands in hers, drawing his fingers to her mouth and sucking on each in turn. The lyrium sparked in his hands as it made contact with her tongue, and Fenris groaned at the sensation, feeling all the blood in his body rushing to his groin.

Isabela made a pleased noise in response, rubbing her body against his. "Let's take this back to the tent."

It was like a bucket of cold water thrown over him, dowsing the rising flames. The idea of walking all the way back to the tent, of seeing Hawke and Fergus, or worse, Varric, at the campfire, knowing what he and Isabela were about to do—of having to ask Fergus, or Hawke, to vacate the tent so that he and Isabela could— "I can't."

"Oh?" Her hands were on his thighs now, moving up and up, until one hand grasped the firm bulge in his leggings. She squeezed, hard, and Fenris gasped as the pain and the pleasure mingled in a mixture so heady it practically drove him to his knees. Isabela chuckled low in her throat. "I think you can."

He followed her through the forest. Under the lust that filled him, he felt strangely at peace. She understood, as well as he could ever have imagined someone could, and he could trust her, farther than he had ever trusted anyone. He let her close the flaps of the tent behind them, and he let her undress him. And then she was naked, too, and she knew just what he wanted, and just how to do it without making him feel ashamed of the responses he could not control.

Fenris woke the next morning flat on his back on Isabela's bedroll. She lay sprawled face-down with her head pillowed on his stomach, her hair spreading across his bare hip and abdomen. It was such an abandoned, somehow childlike position that he couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from someplace inside him that had almost forgotten how. At the sound, Isabela stirred, lifting her head and blinking at him. Then she smiled, a slow, satisfied smile.

"Wasn't so bad, was it?"

He had to stop and clear his throat before he could speak. "Not—not bad at all." His breath caught in his throat because he wanted to know, but he felt strange about asking. "What now?"

"How do you feel about piracy?"

And that was how it went—they exited the tent, enduring the knowing smiles and teasing remarks of their companions, and when they returned to Kirkwall, gathered their belongings and the generous amounts of coin they had made while following Hawke, and before Fenris knew it, they were pirates. And far out on Isabela's beloved ocean, with only their own whims to call them from one port to another, Fenris discovered a freedom he had never even dreamt of.


	51. Let My Love Open the Door

The mansion was as silent as ever; more so, now that Orana had taken a job as Aveline and Donnic’s housekeeper. Kirkwall was an entirely different place than Jennie had left; in her absence, Knight-Commander Meredith’s madness had boiled over, causing her to attack the mages in an ill-advised attempt to carry out the Rite of Tranquillity. The mages had fought back, making Kirkwall a battleground all over again, and when it was all over the Gallows and the Chantry lay in crumbled ruins. The city had looked to its Champion, but Jennie hadn’t been there to help, so Aveline had stepped in, and Sebastian. Now Sebastian was Viscount of Kirkwall, Aveline his seneschal, and the name of Hawke was uttered with bitterness. Jennie was looked upon as having abandoned her city when it needed her most.

She kept to herself as much as possible, leaving the house only to visit Varric at the Hanged Man. The denizens of the bar had surrounded him, supporting his every need, and other than the scars on his face and his unseeing gaze, his life seemed to be more or less what it had been before the long journey. Jennie visited him regularly, and found it easy to forget that he couldn’t see her—he was as observant and insightful as ever. But they never spoke of Zevran or Fergus. Neither one of them was ready for that.

Merrill was missing; she had disappeared from the alienage not long after the rest of them had left. Jennie thought about making a pilgrimage out to Sundermount to look for the little elf, but with no one available to accompany her, she didn’t feel safe venturing into the Dalish camp. The elves had been hostile to them even before; depending on what had happened to Merrill, Jennie thought they might well be more than hostile now. 

She sat across from Varric at the Hanged Man, moodily lifting the cup of ale to her lips, but the smell turned her stomach and she put it down again. Had she ever really enjoyed this place, with its filth and its squalor and its truly dreadful potables? She couldn’t remember why, now, unless it had been because this was where the others were. Now it was just the two of them.

“Hawke, what are you waiting for?” Varric asked.

“Sorry. Just don’t feel like drinking today, I suppose.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’re sitting here in Kirkwall with nothing to do, pretending it’s your home, when you and I both know that it never was. You put up with it because this is where your mother wanted you to be, and later because you felt a responsibility to be Champion. Pardon my bluntness, but both those reasons are history now.”

She stared at him for a moment, then put the cup down. “Maybe so; but history is all I have.”

“Judging by the way Cousland was glued to your side all the way back, I beg to differ.”

“Aw, come on, Varric, who are we kidding? I’m not teyrna material, even if Fergus was serious.” Varric started to argue, but she cut him off. “He’s not here, is he? He went home and he looked around and he decided I didn’t fit. And he was right.”

“What about you? Don’t you get to make your own decisions? Come on, Hawke. For all that you’ve been a leader, you’ve let everyone else tell you what to do and who to be. Your mother wanted to come to Kirkwall; you came to Kirkwall. Your uncle sold you to the mercenaries; you became a mercenary. Your sister wanted to be a noblewoman; you got back the Amell estate. Meredith called you a Champion; you became the Champion of Kirkwall. None of those things was ever you. So, for once in your life, sister, ask yourself, what in the name of Andraste’s flaming bosom do you want?”

Hawke stared at her friend, open-mouthed. She’d never heard him speak with quite such vehemence before. “I—“ She froze, trying to think of what she wanted. Then she took a breath, and stopped thinking, and just let the words come out. “I want to go home. And I want Fergus.”

“Good.” Varric leaned back, smiling. “Go get him, then.”

“What will you do?”

“Me? I’ll do what I’ve always done.” He gestured to the busy bar. “This is my home, Hawke. It’s where I’m happy.”

“I’ll miss you, Varric.”

“Me, too.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
It took remarkably little time to sell the estate and wrap up her affairs. Varric had kept most of her assets invested for her, and he wrangled her money out of the pockets of the Merchants’ Guild deftly. Jennie wasn’t certain about carrying around quite that much coin, but he assured her there were a few traps in the little chest of gold that would effectively deter the most determined thief. A few tricks he had picked up from Zev, he said with a smirk that she resolutely refused to ask about. The estate was even easier—it was so conveniently located near the steps to the Viscount’s Keep that Aveline had a long waiting list of nobles who had expressed an interest in purchasing it. Jennie didn’t ask who was buying the property. She was more than happy to pocket the extremely large purchase price and walk away. She had never been an Amell—she was Hawke through and through.

Her ship sailed with the evening tide. She had decided to take charge of her own destiny, and had taken a berth on a ship bound for Highever. Once it docked, she would make her way to Fergus’s home and there she would see if her future lay with him, or deeper into Ferelden. Either way, she looked forward to feeling the squelch of that cold mud beneath her boots again; she felt lighter at heart than she had in years. Since her father had died, really, long before the Blight.

Jennie opened the door of the Hanged Man for the last time. She would check in with Varric before she left, as she’d promised him, and share a final sour ale before she left Kirkwall behind her. She’d already said her good-byes to Aveline and Sebastian at the keep, which had been more of an anticlimax than anything else. They were sad to see her go … but not too much so, as the lack of a “Champion” in the city solidified them in their roles. She wished them luck and joy of it—she’d never wanted the responsibility of being champion of a city she felt little affection for anyway.

The Hanged Man was hopping, as always. Jennie had no trouble finding Varric’s table, though—as usual, it was the one surrounded by the most people. How she would miss that dwarf! But he belonged here, as he’d said, and she was more than ready to go home.

She recognized almost everyone in here, the same people who were here night after night, drowning their sorrows and whiling away their lives in raucous hilarity. But one man was different—taller, broader of shoulder, his clothing effortlessly worn but far more expensive than that worn by everyone else. Standing next to Varric’s table with his back to her, he reminded her of … Fergus! Just as she thought the name, he turned around, his smile lighting his whole face when he saw her.

Jennie was too stunned to react at first, and he clearly noticed, because his smile dimmed. She shook herself, hurrying to his side. “You’re here! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I told you I would come,” he said. There was disappointment in his eyes now, replacing the joy that had been there when he first saw her. 

“I know you did, I just …” The words wouldn’t come, and it was so noisy in the bar that it was hard to think.

“All right, you two. This is no place for any kind of reunion.” Varric managed to put about a dozen different meanings into that one word. “Both of you, upstairs now.”

“We can’t take your room.”

“You aren’t. You’re taking Rivaini’s.” Even though he couldn’t see the look on Jennie’s face, he grinned at it anyway. “Don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly cleaned. Her rent is paid up for the year—I figure she and the elf might want to crash next time they come through town. There’s always a use for a room at the Hanged Man.”

Jennie couldn’t help but laugh. He would never change, and thank the Maker for that. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Just get your heads straight, will you? That’s enough for me.”

“On that note, let’s not keep him waiting.” Fergus put his hand on the small of Jennie’s back, guiding her through the crowds toward the stairs. The touch was gentlemanly and light, and Jennie felt its warmth spreading through her body.

She led the way to Isabela’s room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. They had never been alone in a room before, and the bed seemed to fill it, made up invitingly. 

“Do you want to start, or shall I?” Fergus asked, without so much as glancing at the bed.

“Um … you can, I suppose. Or …”

“Why don’t you go ahead.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, looking at her expectantly.

“Well …” Jennie could feel her face flaming. Why was this so hard? Because she wasn’t sure how he felt, or because she wasn’t sure how she felt? She looked at him, her eyes moving over his face, so familiar now and so dear to her. She knew the lines around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the weary way he ran his hand through his hair, and deep within herself, she knew they were all because of her—and that she had the means to smooth those lines, to ease that tension. Jennie took a deep breath, feeling that knowledge give her the confidence to say what she wanted—and more, to be sure of what she wanted. “I’ve booked passage on a ship to Highever. It leaves tonight.”

“You mean I almost missed you?”

She nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “If you’d been any later, we’d have crossed on the ocean.”

“I’m glad I arrived today, then. Otherwise, we’d have been a cliché.”

“Can’t have that.”

“No.” Fergus studied her face, his eyes serious. “Were you going to tell me you were coming?”

Jennie shook her head. “I … didn’t want to—I mean, I didn’t know what to write. I barely know what to say right now. Putting it down on paper seemed—nothing ever sounded right. I wish I was Varric.”

“You could have had him write for you.”

“Maker only knows what he’d have said. It would have been all flowery and not—not me.”

“What do you want to say?”

She swallowed hard, searching for the words. “I guess—that I missed you.”

His eyes lit at that, but his face remained unchanged. “That’s a start.”

“And … oh, Fergus, I don’t know if I can be the woman you need. Teyrna is such a big word, and comes with so many responsibilities and restrictions that I don’t know if I can live up to—and your mother, from everything I’ve ever heard, was exceptional at all of them. But I want to try. If—if you want me to.” He didn’t respond immediately, and her heart sank. “Um, I suppose it’s your turn.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

Jennie’s breath caught in her throat. This was a man who must be surrounded in his life by attractive women who belonged in his sphere of society—to think of him thinking of her made her want to duck her head in embarrassment and lift it with pride at one and the same time. If she could have narrowed it down to just one reaction, this whole situation would have been so much easier. “And?”

“And I haven’t felt like this about anyone since—“ He caught himself, standing up, his eyes holding hers. “No, that’s not true. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I loved Oriana with all my heart, and I treasured our life together, and I’ll never love anyone the way I loved her, but you are an entirely different person and you fascinate me. I want to hold you, to watch you move, to fight at your side, to spar with you, to teach you to dance. I want you in my life, Jennie. You may not be what most people think of when they think of a teyrna, that’s true enough, but you can make it what it needs to be. You’ve proven as Champion that you care about your people, and that’s the most important part. They’ll forgive a lot if they think you really care what happens to them, and you do.”

“Are you … sure?”

He nodded, slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. “The question is, are you?”

Jennie didn’t give herself time to think—she went with the first word that came to her head. “Yes!” It was a relief to have said it, to have the decision clear and certain before her. Fergus’s arms opened for her, his face lighting with happiness, and she rushed into his embrace. “Yes! Fergus, take me home.”

“With pleasure.” Gently, he tipped her chin up so that his lips could find hers in a warm kiss. For the first time in her life, Jennie gave herself over to her feelings instead of fighting them, or fleeing in fear. She relaxed into his arms and soon under his gentle hands and lips she forgot she had ever been afraid.

In the days and years to come, she would struggle sometimes with her feelings of inadequacy; Fergus would feel the sting of his earlier losses; Ferelden and all of Thedas would feel the turmoil of a world that was changing rapidly, and suffer from those changes. But they would have each other, and that was worth everything.


End file.
